


Finding Merlin

by kriadydragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has always looked out for Arthur. Now it's Arthur's turn to look out for Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I need to point out that Merlin will come across as rather OOC in this, but that is for a reason. And don't let the question mark in the chapter numbers fool you. This story is completely written, but I wrote it as a single story rather than dividing it into chapters, so I have no idea how many chapters it will be just yet. Updates will be every other day.

Normally, this would have been the part where Arthur demonstrated that his verbal prowess was still intact despite the buzz of alcohol clouding most of his brain, where he would establish dominance and ownership of his current surroundings with an attack of well-aimed insults that would leave Gwaine laughing his arse off and Arthur triumphant. His half-sister Morgana would call it being a prick and a coward, building himself up by tearing down those lesser than him. 

But vagrants _were_ lesser, and obnoxious, and the presence of the boy in front of him was going to be the rain on the parade that was Arthur's post-club intoxication, booze and lingering perfume of the girls he'd danced with a cloud carrying him to the stars. This was the part where he and Gwaine would waste the remainder of the night shattering beer bottles and laughing at their own brilliant stupidity. Which couldn't happen until the boy was gone, no longer tainting the place with his ragged thinness and what always eventually happened when there were vagrants around, friendly begging. Let the kid get his drug money elsewhere. Tonight, this was Pendragon territory, and the boy was an intruder. 

A few insults, that's all it ever took. Maybe emphasized for good measure with a light kick to the shins or feet, to let the beggar know who's boss and all that. It would only take a second, and Gwaine was already hurling bottles into the ditch on the other side of the overpass. 

Arthur stared at the boy: the large coat, layer after layer of shirts, his movements twitchy and erratic while keeping his limbs close to his sickly body. He refused to look at Arthur, not ignoring him but hoping to be ignored. He would be easy to chase off. Fun, even.

“Come on, Pendragon! You're wasting the night!” Gwaine called, and his bark of a laugh made the boy flinch. 

Arthur stared at the boy who refused to look at him. Just an insult, quick and painless. He had done it so many times before without a thought and without remorse. Tonight wouldn't, shouldn't, be any different. 

Arthur couldn't do it. 

Fine, he would admit it to himself. He couldn't chase the boy off and he had no bloody idea why. Maybe he just wasn't in the mood; too tired, too drunk, the kid just not worth his time – whatever, it didn't really matter, did it? Arthur turned his back on the boy and joined Gwaine. 

Gwaine, already staggering drunk and about to toss another bottle, jerked his chin in the kid's direction. “No putting him in his place, tonight?” Not that Gwaine cared. He never did beyond the occasional look of mild discomfort. 

Arthur snorted. “He wouldn't listen if I tried. You should see him, twitching all over the blasted place.” He mocked the boy's motions, the way the boy's hands would shoot up his body to his head and scrub his hair, slide convulsively down the back of his neck and tuck into his chest, only exaggerated and, in point of fact, nothing like the boy's motions at all. 

Arthur and Gwaine tossed bottles, laughed, told the latest raunchy jokes, verbally bashed Arthur's father and the boy remained where he was, looking away as if his life depended on it. 

~oOo~

( _He dreamed of the boy, healthier, happier, dressed in blue with a red scarf, carrying a tray of food into a stone chamber. Arthur called him idiot, and boy called him prat, and that was the way it should be_ )

~oOo~

There were two outcomes to a night like this. One, they stumbled home, too drunk to call a cab, then pissing and moaning about who would be the one to fetch the car. Or, two, they passed out in said car. There was also the rare but annoying enough never to forget option of three, they get arrested for passing out. 

They didn't get arrested, much to Arthur's relief when he woke up in the back seat, his mouth tasting of Gwaine's unwashed socks and jackhammers going off in his head. Gwaine continued to snore away in the front seat, while outside the day was steel gray and iron cold. Arthur crawled his painful way through the door into the chilly air. He hopped up and down, flapping his arms to get the circulation going, or tried to until his stomach told him in no uncertain terms that he really shouldn't be doing that. Arthur dragged his rebelling body to the overpass to take a piss. 

The boy was still there, still huddled in his layers against the wall, fast asleep or attempting to sleep. He was shivering, and twitching, and Arthur thought he might have heard a bit of a whimper. 

Vagrants were vagrants and had always been vagrants, looking for free handouts or a free high – the bane of Arthur's night life when he needed to let off some father-related steam. The boy was probably a drug addict, strung-out and riding it out until he was sober enough to get home. No one of interest. No one of importance. No more fascinating than the insects the boy was sharing his patch of dumpster with.

So it made absolutely no sense that now, out of all the strung-out teens and drunken bums that Arthur had chased off, this particular vagrant's huddling and shivering against the wall would strike Arthur as wrong.

Not just wrong, very wrong, as though the boy should have been huddling and shivering else where...

No, that wasn't right, either. As though the boy shouldn't be huddling and shivering at all. 

The boy shifted, shuddered, then woke with a gasp that left him panting as if he'd been running in his dreams. He shifted around, about to stretch long, bony limbs when he finally realized he wasn't alone.

The boy froze. It was almost comical the way his head turned ever so slowly toward Arthur. He regarded Arthur in a heart-beat moment of round-eyed surprise (his eyes were blue, but sunken, sickly like the rest of him, and that, too, seemed wrong) only to quickly turn away, curling into himself as if he honestly believed that the more he could shrink the more he could go on being ignored. 

Later, Arthur would blame it on his hangover, and possibly being temporarily possessed, when he rolled his eyes and asked in the flat tone he often used when he was forced to be polite, “Are you hungry?”

He didn't expect the boy to answer. Mostly he expected the boy to run away as he might from a complete stranger asking if he'd like a romp in the bedsheets. What Arthur got was a minute nod of a dark head on trembling shoulders. 

The rest just seemed to... happen. It had to be the hangover, because there was no sane reason why Arthur soon found himself driving home, a sleeping Gwaine in the front, a lump of bony boy in the back huddling against the door like a terrified cat. He hadn't even asked the boy his name. Never mind that, what the hell was wrong with him asking a bloody, possibly high vagrant to come over for breakfast as if inviting a friend for tea? Who in their right mind did such things other than bleeding heart idiots who honestly believed kindness would ensure no knife to the back while the object of their kindness robbed them dry?

And why the hell wasn't Arthur pulling over and kicking the boy out?

Arthur's preoccupation with what had to be his insanity saw them back at the flat in a matter of what felt like seconds. A part of Arthur's mind whispered to him that there was nothing more for it; they were here, so he might as well keep his promise of letting the kid eat. Arthur wanted to call it an excuse to avoid any more self-questioning of his mental state, but he couldn't help feeling like he had made a compromise. 

Gwaine Arthur left sleeping in the front seat – the man was a bastard when waking with a hangover. Arthur had the boy follow him, expecting him to run, but amazed when the boy obeyed despite his obvious dread. 

“You don't have to, you know,” Arthur spat irritably as he fumbled his key into the lock. “It's not like I'm forcing you or anything it's just... you look hungry.” He winced. When he looked back, the boy was standing there on the bottom step of the stoop, swamped in his dark gray coat, shoulders hunched and his gaze turned resolutely away. 

Arthur opened the door. He tensed as he led the way inside, waiting for a knife to the back or clock to the head. Neither came, and another look back showed him the boy shuffling timidly after. The boy paused only long enough to slip off his ratty sneakers. Which, considering the state of the place, wasn't necessary. But it told a story, the story of a boy who had grown up with good manners drilled into his head, and that he wasn't about to kill Arthur and rob him. You don't take off your shoes in the house you planned to knick.

Feeling a little more at ease, Arthur gave the boy the short tour of the place, ending at the kitchenette larger than most kitchens found in a flat – one of the few perks of being Uther Pendragon's son. Arthur had the boy sit at the glass dining table (the kind normally reserved for patios, but half-price and right there when Arthur had been in no mood for table shopping) while he prepared them a hardy meal of cornflakes. 

Sometime during the preparations, Merlin had wriggled out of his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. It didn't matter how many shirts he wore, it couldn't hide the rawness of him, like the bodies of the junkies Arthur had always taken joy in scaring off; too thin and too angular, with nothing to hide the jutting knobs and lines of the skeleton, the skin ghost white and bruised looking. 

The problem was the boy's eyes. They weren't a junky's eyes. Not clouded, not staring into nothing. They were clear and wide and so very much afraid despite the fact that Arthur had given the kid an out. They were the eyes of a terrified child, lost and confused but resigned to it, and once again Arthur was struck with how wrong that was. It was as if he knew this boy, knew how he should be, how he _needed_ to be. 

“So,” Arthur said, trying to be as chipper and non-threatening as possible while he set down the bowls. “I'm Arthur. And you are...?”

For a moment, the boy said nothing, and Arthur found himself holding his breath, waiting for an answer.

“M-Merlin.”

Arthur nodded sharply. “Right, Merlin. Like anything for your cereal? Sugar? Honey?” But this time Arthur didn't wait for a reply. He fetched the items, anyway, liking sugar on his cornflakes, as well as the milk, which he had forgotten. 

Arthur drowned his cornflakes in milk, while Merlin squeezed a wise amount of honey with a shaking hand. They ate in the most uncomfortable silence Arthur had ever experienced, and that included the silences that had reigned over the vast majority of family dinners. 

“So,” Arthur said, desperate to break that silence. 

No topic came to mind. Arthur had been a little too hopeful in thinking one would. He couldn't exactly ask the boy what he did and where he was going, and doubted “where are you from,” would be met with a coherent answer. He may not have had the boy's life story but he had plenty to tell him that whatever happened in this kid's life to see him on the streets wasn't something the kid was going to talk about willingly. And to be honest, Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

So they ate in silence, Arthur staring at Merlin, Merlin staring at the table. 

Gawine came barreling in as he always did after a night of drinking, clubbing, sleeping in the car and waking to find himself back at the flat – like a bull in a China shop.

“You could at least do me the courtesy of tossing me my bloody shades before going inside. Bloody daylight's like the knife to the eye. Where's the damn Tylenol?”

It took about two minutes of Gwaine rummaging through cupboards before he finally turned toward the table, frowning. “Who the hell is that?”

Arthur flapped a hand at first Merlin, then Gwaine. “Gwaine, Merlin. Merlin, Gwaine.”

“Oh,” Gwaine said. He went back to rummaging. Merlin hunched over his bowl like he was protecting it. 

When one lived the life of Arthur and Gwaine, people tended to happen. Temporary friends forgotten in a week's time, (in Gwain'es case) one-night-stands with phone numbers written on pieces of paper or bare chests, tossed away or washed off, designated drivers rewarded with a meal or a little X-Box time. Neither Arthur nor Gwaine thought anything of it, and for once Arthur was glad for that. All the more so when that curious yet controlling part of Arthur that had invited the boy over now invited the boy to go ahead and use their shower. It was all right, Arthur had a few spare clothes the boy could use while he washed his own, or a robe if Merlin wasn't comfortable borrowing other people's things. It didn't matter the reassurances, Merlin seemed destined to be forever uncomfortable, and nervous, and rather flinchy as betrayed when Gwaine breezed by him and the spoon-full of cereal going to Merlin's mouth slopped onto the table. 

Arthur didn't get it, didn't get what was wrong with him today, but it wasn't enough for him to change his mind. Whoever Merlin was, he was harmless, and thin, and Arthur could probably bench press him with one hand. Merlin was not a danger and Arthur could even use this to gloat to Morgana, show her that he wasn't the wanker she always thought of him as. 

Merlin didn't act on Arthur's invitation until he had eaten the bowl practically clean. Whoever this kid, he wasn't one to pass up an opportunity. In fact, there seemed to be a bit of a hurry to his shuffling as he headed to the loo, as though half-fearing Arthur would rescind the offer to get clean and kick him out. 

Gwaine took Merlin's spot with a bowl of cereal of his own, pushing Merlin's bowl to the side. Despite the unspoken agreement - habit, ritual, whatever one wanted to call it – of not inquiring about current guests, Arthur still waited for Gwaine to ask _something_. Arthur had to keep reminding himself that Gwaine hadn't technically seen Merlin out at the overpass, at least not up close. He had no idea Merlin was the homeless kid Arthur hadn't chased off. And as long as Arthur didn't say anything then Gwaine would never find out. It felt like keeping a secret – the big, nasty kind that could ruin a person's reputation, their livelihood and their career. 

Which was absolutely ridiculous. Yes, there was that very slim possibility of word getting out and eventually getting to his father, but that was about as likely as Morgana saying that Arthur was the best brother ever complete with one of those cheap plastic trophies for all the world to know. The only time Gwaine and Uther had associated was... well, to be honest Arthur couldn't think of a time. No, wait, there was that time Gwaine had broken an expensive vase and Uther had banished Gwaine from the house. Gwaine and Arthur had been nine at the time. 

Neither man up to talking, Arthur shoved his empty bowl to the side and went to get Merlin the promised borrowed clothes. Not that he expected anything to fit, although he did have a pair of draw-string sweats. It took a bit of rummaging to find them, long enough for Merlin's shower to end. It was quite the timing – Arthur heading to the bathroom to drop off the clothes; Merlin, a towel around his thin waist, opening the door since the clothes had yet to be provided. The boy jumped on seeing Arthur and took a step back, expecting... Arthur wasn't sure what he was expecting but it wasn't good.

The fading bruises on Merlin's body probably had something to do with it; ugly, patchy yellow and green things splotching his arms, his shoulders, and wrapped around his visible ribs. Scattered with them were cuts and scrapes, scabbed over or nearly healed. 

Arthur blinked. “Uh... here. The... uh... the clothes.” He quickly handed the bundle of T-shirt and sweats to Merlin, who quickly took them and retreated back into the bathroom. Not before Merlin turned, giving Arthur an unobstructed view of his back, where the bruises seemed to have gathered.

And they would be heavy, there, when the body had curled into itself, protecting the soft parts by offering up the bony parts. Then the door closed, and Arthur was freed from the hideous sight. He moved like a man punch-drunk to the couch and dropped himself onto it. 

“You all right, mate?” Gwaine asked.

Arthur jumped, then blinked up at Gwaine now hovering by the couch, his refilled bowl of cereal cradled in one hand and spoon having paused on its way to his mouth. 

“What?”

“I said are you all right?” Gwaine chuffed. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Arthur shook his head and waved Gwaine off. “I'm fine.”

Except that he wasn't. That part of him, the part that had invited Merlin over, let Merlin use their shower, let Merlin borrow his clothes, was joined at the hip to the impression that a bruised and sickly stranger was wrong, all wrong. Well of course it was wrong – someone had beat the kid and you couldn't exactly call a beating good, not when the body beaten was that thin and helpless. 

But it was different, this feeling of wrongness. It was like... like the time Morgana had left one of her Barbie's in Arthur's toy box among his GI Joes and Transformers. Like the time she had made their Doberman wear a pink sweater. Like skinny Andy Cromwell trying out for the Rugby team. Merlin – timid, frightened, battered and bruised – it didn't fit. The kid was a complete stranger and yet that didn't stop Arthur from being unable to reconcile Merlin and docility as being able to share so much as the same sentence together. 

Arthur didn't get it, and it was starting to scare him. 

Merlin came out of the bathroom, practically swimming in Arthur's university T-shirt and looking twice as lost because of it. He stood there, hands clasped in front of him like a servant awaiting orders and fearing retribution should he not act quickly.

Even Arthur's metaphors of Merlin didn't sit right with him. Arthur sighed, feeling defeated without ever knowing who his foe was.

“It'll probably be a bit before your clothes are washed. It's Gwaine's day to do the washing.”

Gwaine, having at some point in time planted himself at the other end of the couch, elbowed Arthur for the reminder. Arthur elbowed him back.

“Feel free to watch TV, play X-box or, I don't know, nap if you want. You can take my room for the time being.”

“Thank you,” Merlin whispered. Arthur was glad to see him shuffle into the bedroom. He didn't think he could take another dose of the awkward silence of breakfast. 

“So... how do we know him?” Gwaine asked.

Arthur stiffened. “You know what? I think I should do the laundry. You really do take too long.” He was up off the couch and making for the hamper before Gwaine had a chance to shake himself of the shock that was Arthur volunteering to do chores. 

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur had been premature to think that a trip to the laundry was an escape. It wasn't. It was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, because now he was free to do a lot of thinking, the kind of thinking that led to more thinking and more worrying without a drop of conclusion to show for it. And it didn't help that for all he knew Merlin's timidity had been an act, and he was robbing the place even as Arthur was drying the bastard's clothes, Gwaine knocked-out or dead because size didn't matter when there was a hang-over mucking up your awareness. 

And yet none of these concerns was enough to prompt Arthur from his sprawled position on the hard plastic chair, watching the clothes spin round and round in a hurricane of fabric and color. At least he'd had one helpful epiphany – to search the boy's clothes. Although it hadn't really been an epiphany, merely common sense. The epiphany had happened during the search, along with the second epiphany to search where those who _did not_ have something to hide wouldn't think to look. The seam of the pants, the inner-lining of the hooded gray sweater, that kind of thing. Arthur may never have tasted the homeless life but he did know a thing or too about hiding things. He'd always fancied himself an expert at concealing fake IDs, mostly because he'd never been caught while Morgana had seemed to get caught every other week. 

But Arthur had found nothing of interest in Merlin's clothes. Some gum wrappers, some gum, and that was about it, which meant whatever the boy had a mind to hide was back at the flat in the boy's coat. Arthur made a mental note to check it. Then it was back to troubled musings and contemplations of his own sanity. 

His thoughts were like the clothes spinning and tumbling in the dryer, and between the hangover and a late night, Arthur dozed.

( _And dreamed of dressing in armor, choosing a sword to slay a beast out of a fantasy tale. And there was Merlin, smiling, choosing a sword for himself, which was ridiculous. He was a servant. But he wouldn't let Arthur face the beast alone. Something buzzed intrusively._ )

Arthur woke with a snort and snuffle. The clothes were done, the hurricane over. 

As Arthur carried the basket of clean laundry back to the flat, he finally came to three conclusions, though mostly for the sake of his sanity. One, if the boy really was harmless then what was the harm of giving him something to eat and a place to rest? It wasn't as though it was meant to be permanent. Two, no amount of wondering what the hell he was doing helping this kid was going to change anything. He was helping him, had seen enough to know the kid needed the help, and at this point Arthur couldn't in good conscious _not_ do anything and still be able to respect himself in the morning. 

Which then begged the question of what, exactly, helping the boy meant. A bowl of cereal and a place to nap? Or something else, something more? Maybe give him money to get the hell out of town, away from whoever was hurting him, and start fresh somewhere else. Arthur had never considered himself charitable and yet neither had he found a reason to be charitable, because charitable had become synonymous with free-loading and so-called friends more than capable of supporting themselves and not wanting to. Merlin obviously wasn't in a position to support himself, and it wasn't like he would return for further mooching if Arthur did help him leave. 

One thing at a time, that's what Arthur figured. First he had to make sure the kid hadn't robbed him and left Gwaine for dead in the process.

Arthur returned to everything as he had left it, sans Gwaine who was sprawled out on the couch, snoring. Arthur knew for a fact that a knocked out Gwaine didn't snore. He normally drooled, and normally because he was drunk off is arse. 

Arthur dumped the basket of laundry next to the couch and made straight for Merlin's coat. A thorough search from pockets to lining produced a well-worn faux leather wallet, black and mostly empty. There was a driver's license so expired that Arthur wondered if the kid still remembered how to drive, a picture of a woman – dark hair, gentle, pleasant face and a kind smile – and that was it. And if the address on the license was correct, the boy didn't live that far from here. 

Arthur put everything back just the way he'd found it and where he'd found it. How pathetic could a life get that the only possessions left were the clothes on their back, a wallet, a useless license and a picture? Since Arthur had enough questions poking incessantly at his mind, he ignored the thought and instead went to check on the source of all his current mental turmoil. 

Merlin slept the sleep of the painfully exhausted, curled up tight on his side at the head of the bed, well away from the tangle of blankets at the foot of the bed, as if afraid he might accidentally touch them. 

Arthur sighed wearily. The kid was such a... _kid_ , a little boy wrapped up in his big brother's clothes and liable to get lost in them. But his face was a contradiction, angular and sunken and pinched with an expression that shouldn't have existed when someone was asleep. He was older than he should have been, younger than he was, not in years but something deeper, something distant, and Arthur was once again struck hard by the impression of how utterly _wrong_ it was. 

Arthur left the room before he had a chance to think on it, _again_. Fine, so it was wrong that some random kid off the streets should look so frail and pathetic. Of course it was wrong, because he was a kid. Yes, the date on his license had put him at twenty, but sixteen or seventeen or twenty he was still younger than Arthur and that made him a kid. A kid living on the streets trying to get away from who ever or whatever had caused all those bruises. 

_This is different and you know it_ , said that part of Arthur that had prompted him to take the kid in. 

“Oh shut up,” Arthur muttered. He shoved Gwaine's feet off the couch, plopped onto it, clicked on the telly and let the cacophony of a detergent commercial drown out his thoughts. Gwaine snuffled, snorted and went right back to sleep. 

Had this been any other day post late night partying, Arthur would be the one sprawled out in his bed, sleeping the remainder of the weekend away, lamenting his self-inflicted pain in the moment because once the headache was gone, the remorse for drinking so much went with it. It was funny how a change in routine surrounded you in the light of realization. Rather than skull-cracking agony, there was only a dull throb pounding at the back of his brain. He was tired, yes. Cranky, definitely. Remorseful? It hadn't even crossed his mind. Time he would have spent sleeping dragged on, and Arthur killed it with channel surfing. Gwaine eventually woke up to shower, change and finish his stupor in his own bed, the only part of the routine that had survived. He didn't seem to notice that Arthur wasn't doing the same.

Lunch rolled around. Arthur made himself a sandwich and ate it alone, wondering if he should make another or wait until Merlin woke up. It didn't feel right waking the kid, especially if this was the first real sleep he'd had in... however long he'd been on the streets. 

But time continued on its merry way, the gray day easing itself toward an even darker evening, and Arthur still didn't know what to do about Merlin. It was too late to shove a few pounds into his hands and kick him politely out the door, and like hell he was sending him back out into the cold. Not when he'd gone through such mental pains to drag him out in the first place.

Arthur tilted his head back and scrubbed his hand through his hair. _This_ , too, was why he didn't do charity – too complicated, too messy, too obnoxious, and he found himself suddenly sympathizing with his father's absolute refusal to let Arthur take in any stray dogs. Except this wasn't a dog, it was a human being, and a possibly traumatized one at that; traumatized, most definitely helpless and _not_ something you could drop off at your local animal shelter. 

Damn it, the day was barely ending, the kid not even awake, and Arthur was already in over his head. 

The creak of the floor snapped Arthur's head upright. There, hovering on the threshold between the bedroom and the hall, was the source of Arthur's moral dilemma, his face half-hidden by the door frame and the one visible eye regarding Arthur with the most painful uncertainty Arthur had ever seen.

“Oh,” Arthur said with a befuddled blink. “You're awake.” Arthur hopped to his feet, causing the boy to flinch back. 

Arthur ignored the reaction. “You hungry? We usually order in about this time and seeing as how you missed lunch and all... guess you were tired,” Arthur said lamely. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it's pizza night so any toppings you're particularly fond of? Or not fond of?”

Merlin, perhaps feeling a little more at ease, inched his way out of the bedroom until both eyes were finally in view. 

“Y-you don't... you don't have to.”

“I insist,” Arthur said. “Most of it ends up being wasted, anyway.” Which was true some of the time and not true the rest of the time, depending on the size of the pie, the size of the hangover, and if they were clear-headed enough to remember it to order it from the place on the west side and not the east side. 

“I – I can't pay you back,” Merlin said. 

“I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to help us finish the bloody thing off. So let's have it – toppings.”

Merlin ducked his head and muttered something.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You do know speaking serves little purpose when I can't hear you.”

Merlin's arms fidgeted, crossing over his chest, then one uncrossing to bring his hand up to his face, or neck, Arthur wasn't quite sure when the arm dropped back to it's previous place. 

“S-sausage,” Merlin said. 

“Anything else? We usually get the supreme – sausage, pepperoni, peppers, the works.”

Merlin nodded. 

Arthur smiled. “Supreme it is.” He pulled out his mobile and dialed. “And you don't have to stand there. Come. Sit. Rot your brain on TV as my nan liked to say.” 

Merlin did his little plaintive shuffle and huddled himself into the corner of the couch, arms still crossed protectively and back hunched. Arthur wished he had given the boy a sweater instead of a T-shirt. He could see just about every rib in the kid's back, and half the knobs of his spine. There were also a few bruises peeking out of the collar of the shirt. 

When Arthur finished ordering and pocketed his phone, he said, “You might as well stay another night. I had no idea you would sleep the day away.” He plopped down on the other side of the couch, giving the skittish Merlin plenty of space, and still the boy jumped. 

Arthur regarded him silently, contemplating the reaction. Perhaps it was the lingering affects of the hangover (still clinging, as it always did, whenever he forgot to take something for it) when he asked, “So Merlin, what's your story?”

Merlin's body tensed like a guitar string, his throat undulated in a nervous spasm of swallowing, and this, Arthur realized, was why bringing the boy home had been a bad idea. Arthur was complete rubbish at compassion, his preferred method of counseling a punch to the arm and the reprimand to stop being such a bloody infant. He didn't do soft touches and kind words, and the only psychology he knew he'd skimmed from a university book used mostly as a beer coaster. 

And as though shoving Arthur's compassion-ineptitude in his face, Merlin's shoulders began to vibrate with tremors.

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed. “Look, I don't need the gritty details, but maybe if there's someplace you'd liked to be dropped off? A relative? Friend? I'm sorry, Merlin, but it's painfully obvious you're running from something bad, but there must be some place you can go to be safe.”

“N-not really,” Merlin said quietly, still shaking and now hunched in on himself.

“Really? No one? No place?”

Merlin shook his head dejectedly. Arthur couldn't help thinking _poor lad_ , and the the feeling of wrongness crept over him once more. 

“I'm sorry,” Merlin said.

Arthur, still mostly in thought, waved the apology off. “Don't be. Look, I'd like to help--”

“Why?” Merlin cut in, tossing nervous glances Arthur's way.

Arthur frowned, bristling. “Do I need a reason? Is it really that hard to believe that it's possible for me to be... _helpful_ to someone?”

“I... don't really know you...” Merlin said timidly, and again Arthur waved him off.

“Ignore that last part. Look, you're here, now, so you might as well make something of it, yeah? If you want to go somewhere, get away, start anew somewhere else then I'll take you, or at least pay the way.”

Merlin's eyes grew large in his thin face, as well as twice as uncertain. His hands fidgeted with the end of the T-shirt, twining and untwining them through his fingers. “I don't know where to go,” he said, so quiet, so lost and helpless and frail that for a moment Arthur was sure the boy would start to cry. There was moisture shimmering on the edge of his eyelids threatening to fall, and once the water-works began then Arthur would _really_ be at a loss. He was rubbish at compassion, but he was a complete git when it came to comforting others. 

And, again, there was that feeling of wrongness, of seeing a complete stranger helpless and scared and yet knowing, without a doubt that this was not the personality that should have been manifesting. Arthur barely knew the boy, and yet seeing him as he was made him sick to his stomach as nothing else ever had. Arthur didn't get it, it was driving him mad, and it was becoming so dominate that the first solution to pop into his head planted roots and refused to budge. Arthur tilted his head back against the couch, exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, then opened them.

“You can stay here until you figure out what to do,” Arthur said.

Merlin's head shot up, his eyes still wide, still shimmering with the threat of unmanly weeping. “I-I don't... you don't...”

“Oh, do shut it, Merlin, before I change my mind,” Which he wouldn't, of course, he knew. He held up a finger, looking at Merlin sternly. “It's to be temporary. Just until you can find some work and a flat of your own.” 

Merlin nodded shakily.

“And I want honesty. Are you, or have you ever been, a drug addict or a thief?”

“No drugs,” Merlin said easily. “I - I took money from my dad's wallet once, just to get some food. I didn't think he'd mind, since it was for food – he doesn't really shop – b-but he wasn't. Fine with it, I mean. Does that count?”

Arthur felt his expression soften. Never had such a short anecdote explain so much. “No, that doesn't count. But if you need money you only have to ask, no need to _borrow_.”

Merlin nodded his head emphatically.

“Good. You seem a decent enough, chap, Merlin, and I'm trusting you to be a decent enough chap while you're here. No... partying or inviting fellow street-residing friends over. No stealing, no suddenly turning to drugs, no smoking--”

“I don't smoke. And I don't have friends.”

“Good. I mean about the smoking thing, not the friends thing,” Arthur added quickly. “You can take the couch. And don't worry about Gwaine, he's harmless. Unless he wants to take you drinking. If he does, say no. The man's a menace if you don't know how to handle him when drunk. There's plenty of food in the cupboards and fridge so help yourself... although make sure to check the expiration dates. And to smell it, make sure it's fresh. When in doubt and you can't find anything else to eat, don't be afraid to speak up. Any questions? Those clothes you've got, are they the only ones?”

“Um... I... they don't have to be but... I had to leave some stuff behind but I can get it later. I have to do it during the day...” Merlin stammered. 

Arthur furrowed his brow. “Not if it's going to be a problem.”

“S'not. Shouldn't, I think, if I'm quick.”

The doorbell chose that moment to ring, giving Arthur a precious few seconds as he answered, paid then transported the pizza over to the table to have a third epiphany.

After all the ditherings and mental natterings over having taken a stranger in - questioning his own sanity and what the hell he had gotten himself into - suddenly, very suddenly, within the short time it took to get the pizza from the door to the kitchen, Arthur found himself quite pleased with his decision to let Merlin stay. 

“You can borrow some of my clothes in the meantime,” Arthur said. “Now come get some pizza.”

~oOo~

Gwaine was Gwaine when Arthur gave him the news that Merlin was to stay with them. He grunted a noncommittal reply around a mouthful of lukewarm pizza. The moron had yet to properly meet the boy but Gwaine was socially useless when just waking up. Then again, it wasn't as though introductions were a common event, not unless the other party was female and pretty. 

Arthur would have left it at that, more than happy to avoid the awkward conversation of “and, oh yes, I barely know Merlin but have the troubling impression that he was being abused and ran away to avoid it.” Because knowing Gwaine – the man who couldn't stay in one spot for more than five minutes unless there was a pretty girl or a hangover involved – his interactions with Merlin would be minimal at best. Gwaine was the epitome of social, the man whose soul purpose seemed to be the upkeep of his nightlife. He was outgoing, charming, friendly – except when he wasn't, and when he wasn't was when he was at home and nursing the outcome of said nightlife. 

There was no reason to give Gwaine the truth in its entirety, no reason at all, save for an obnoxious niggling doubt that shyly begged to differ. Arthur ignored it, there being no rhyme or reason to it. Gwaine went to bed full of pizza and Arthur made up the couch for Merlin to sleep on. 

“Thank you,” Merlin said, still uncertain, but not as timid. “You really don't have to--”

Arthur held up his hand. “Enough of that. I did, I am, end of story.” But he had a feeling it was going to be some time before Merlin stopped trying to give him an out. 

Arthur went to bed exhausted, his head still aching and his body with it, as though his mental battles had been a physical one. He fell asleep almost immediately.

( _He was once again in armor, riding a horse that he reined to a stop. He held up a fist to stop Gwaine, also in armor and also riding, nattering on as he always did. Merlin emerged from a bog, covered in mud, and Arthur didn't care. He hurried forward and embraced him, happy, relieved, because Merlin was alive and safe..._ )

The mechanical shriek of the alarm cut through Arthur's sleep like a blade. Arthur moaned, flopping his hand around in search of the offending device, and on landing on the stupid piece of plastic he gave it a vindictive slap until the blasted shrieking finally died. All hail the work week, bastard slave-driver that it was. But that had been his father's condition for supporting Arthur so that he was able to live in a flat that wouldn't drive him to bashing his head against the wall with its coarseness. You will learn to support yourself, his father had said. 

Except it wasn't about support, not with the trust fund. It was about the family business and keeping it in the family, because their ancestors had been rather old fashioned and a little sexist and refused to pass the title on to any but a male heir bearing the family name. The way Uther prattled on about it one would think they were royalty, not brilliant entrepreneurs with an eye for promising investments. The only consolation was that Arthur's position was part time five days a week, leaving plenty of time for Arthur to bask in the freedom from Uther's scrutiny that was the weekend. His father might dictate the majority of his life but not where, when and how he partied (though not for lack of trying on Uther's part).

It took Arthur twenty minutes to get out of bed as it often did at the start of the week. He was running late, in a hurry and had no choice but to leave a soundly sleeping Merlin to the tender mercy's of having already shown him around the place the other day. He thought about maybe calling him later, to make sure he was all right, then remembered the kid didn't have a cell phone. He and Gwaine should have invested in a home phone after all, not that the kid would have answered it. 

To be honest, Arthur wasn't sure what his job title was, although some days he was sure it was “glorified but mostly useless secretary slash data entry person.” He filed, he processed, he made copies and, sometimes, he sat in on meetings that made him want to jamb his pen into both eye sockets. Arthur wasn't an idiot. He knew the meetings were a lesson on how companies were run, because nothing was ever done with the notes he took and there had yet to be any complaints about those notes being half covered with doodles. Uther, however, did complain – loudly and often – if he thought Arthur might have been dosing off. He also complained just to be complaining, forever certain that Arthur was slacking off but with no real proof to back it up. 

Pendragon senior always had a complaint a week. Today, it started early. Arthur arrived, on time, barely one minute to go, and already had a note on his desk to go see his father.

Uther reigned as a business man with a lofty position of himself often did – on the topmost floor in a cold office of pricy polished wood and a cathedral-like vastness that was overkill. Arthur walked in and stood by the soft, black leather chair across from Uther's desk. Uther, fixated on whatever it was he was signing, waved at him to sit. When Uther was done, he set down his expensive pen, folded his hands, and smiled a smile that refused to reach his eyes.

It was never good when he smiled like that. 

“So,” Uther began. “How was your weekend?” 

It was the kind of question so soaked in saccharine innocence you either had to be deaf or a complete moron to miss it for what it was – a horde of accusations waiting to happen.

And so it began. Arthur said, “fine.” Uther said, “And yet you look as you always do every Monday morning – half-asleep and continuing to nurse the last dregs of your hangover.” Arthur said as flippantly as he could, “Then why do you bother even asking me about it?” So on, so forth, tit for tat until Uther honestly thought Arthur had been thoroughly chastised and put in his place even while Arthur was tuning him out when Uther reached the part about responsibility and growing up because one day all this would be his. It was like they were living in a bloody play, the lines well rehearsed but the acting a little wanting since they'd played their parts to death. At least it meant was Arthur free to enjoy the rest of the day without a reprimand. Uther usually only had one in him per day, two if a business deal went south and he needed someone to take it out on.

Arthur did a little work, passed the rest time after lunch surfing the net, then went home. 

“You look like you need a drink, mate,” Gwaine said, because of course it had to be Gwaine he walked in on, lounging around in his underwear with a plate of food on his lap, because of course today of all days he had managed to sweet talk his way out of work early. And Gwaine's remedy for any problem be they girls, a hard day at work or overbearing fathers was to go out, get drunk and rekindle the reason for the bad day in the first place when Arthur turned up with yet another hangover. 

Arthur wanted to tell him something pithy, or at least to shut up. Instead, he glanced around the room and demanded, “Where's Merlin?”

“The skinny lad? He's passed out in your room. Does he have a doctor because I'm thinking that boy might be anemic. Kid could barely keep his eyes open. I mean, I know he cleaned but cleaning shouldn't knock a bloke out that quickly.”

It was like someone had flipped on a light, expanding Arthur's awareness from his annoyance and Gwaine to the state of his surroundings.

While no one had ever accused the flat of being a pig sty, neither had it earned the title of “tidy.” Since one never knew who might drop by, Arthur and Gwaine had made it an unspoken rule _not_ to leave clothes strewn about where just anyone could see them and _not_ to toss bits of garbage where ever it was convenient. But organization was definitely lacking, most of their CDs and DVDs in piles next to the stereo or television, plates always stacked in the sink no matter how many times they took a moment to wash a few, and crumbs always on the table. 

But now the CDs and DVDs were neatly gathered on the metal racks _and_ in alphabetical order. The sink was dish free, the table wiped, the counters wiped, the floor recently vacuumed, and when Arthur poked about the kitchen, he saw the garbage empty and the dishes piled neatly in their cupboards. Further exploration revealed a sparkling bathroom, both bedrooms without a scrap of clothing on the floor, and all the laundry put away. The only time Arthur could recall the place being this tidy was when they'd first moved in and Gwen and Morgana had refused to let them organize.

Everything even smelled clean. And the source of it all was sacked out on top of Arthur's neatly made bed, his thin body curled impossibly tight. Arthur rolled his eyes and fetched one of the spare blankets they kept in the cupboard (Morgana's doing, who was under the impression that a home wasn't a home without a spare everything). Merlin relaxing was immediate and noticeable. Arthur left him to his rest as he walked from the room, feeling rather pleased with himself, until he entered the living room and marveled once again over how clean it was. 

“Kid's got a talent,” Gwaine said casually.

“What, for cleaning?” Arthur sneered. “That's not a talent. This clean, it's a bloody obsession.”

Gwaine shrugged, popping a chip into his mouth. “A bloody _useful_ obsession. Where'd you find this kid?”

No, uh-uh, Arthur was not going there. “Just ran into him. Is there any pizza left?”

“Not anymore,” Gwaine said, and shoved the last bit of crust next to his chips on the plate into his mouth.

“Bastard,” Arthur muttered, even though he was mostly fine with it seeing as how he was in the mood for some Korean take out – which he would _not_ share with Gwaine, but made sure to order enough for Merlin. 

The boy in question woke just after Arthur finished ordering. He didn't emerge from the room, not quite yet, but a round of wet, painful coughs proceeded him and when he did emerge, Arthur had to wonder what good a long nap was because Merlin looked horrible. He was pale, hunched in the too-large sweat-shirt and his shoulders vibrating ever-so-slightly. No wonder Gwaine thought the kid anemic; he looked like he was bloody well on Death's door. 

“I've ordered Korean,” Arthur announced as though Merlin's sickly appearance hadn't startled him. “Hope you like it. Merlin, you look like hell.”

Merlin flinched at the non sequitur. “Wha...? Um, sorry.” Then he shuffled to the couch, squeezing himself into the corner as far from Gwaine as possible. But when Gwaine offered him a chip, he took it.

“No,” Arthur reprimanded. “You don't apologize, you tell me what's wrong.”

“Just a cough,” Merlin said lightly, only to nearly implode in on himself in another fit of “just a cough” that sounded more like he was expelling a lung. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. If it wasn't for the immaculate state of the flat thanks to Merlin, Arthur was tempted to say the boy was starting to be more trouble than he was worth. 

Not that it stopped Arthur from ringing the family doctor.

~oOo~

As lovely an excuse for taking off work for a doctor's appointment was, when you were the son of Uther Pendragon, it was like consigning yourself to an interrogation. What was wrong with him, did he think it was serious or will it be a routine checkup, if he would only stop staying out all night then this wouldn't happen and so on and so forth until Arthur wished he could bash his head into the wall and knock himself out. 

But Gaius – bless his wrinkly old hide – had been the family's physician long enough to maintain Uther's loyalty without bruising Arthur's trust. Arthur escaped work with plenty of time to spare to pick Merlin up and bring him into the cozy office of Gaius' private practice. Gwaine probably could have done it if he wasn't such rubbish at cover stories and if Arthur wasn't so suddenly paranoid about insurance fraud and his father finding out about it. Arthur had gone so far as to make an appointment for himself, the cost for Merlin coming out of his own pocket, and it boggled him once again how much he was doing for this kid.

Gaius merely raised an amused eyebrow when Arthur told him what was going on. He looked at Arthur, then at Merlin, and smiled.

“Lucky for you, Arthur, I do offer discounts from time to time,” he said. He then ushered them both into the exam room. 

Merlin went first since that was the whole point of coming here. Gaius had Merlin remove his shirt, and when he did, Gaius' smile dropped straight into a frown. 

“My word,” he muttered. He placed his hands on Merlin's back, and when Merlin flinched, the frown turned sympathetic. 

“Merlin, may I ask where you got these bruises?” Gaius asked as he pressed and prodded along the visible bones. “Nothing feels broken but I think X-rays may be in order to play it safe. Merlin, it's all right to answer, you won't get in trouble. I can ask Arthur to leave if you wish to keep it confidential.”

Merlin's face was tight, his hands pale as they clenched the edge of the exam bed. “S'okay,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Just... got in a bit of a fight, s'all.”

“You must get in fights quite often,” Gaius muttered. He pried one of Merlin's hands from the bed, studied it shrewdly, studied Merlin shrewdly, then set the hand back down. It took Arthur a moment to realize that for a boy who got into quite a few fights, his knuckles were incredibly unscathed. 

Gaius moved on, listening to Merlin's heart, then his lungs through the back with a stethoscope, his frown putting extra lines on his weathered face. X-rays were definitely in order and not just for Merlin's bones. 

The verdict was that it wasn't pneumonia but it could have been if Arthur hadn't brought Merlin in. Merlin's bones weren't broken, but they had been, with a crack on a rib not yet healed that had made taking deep breaths difficult and leaving his lungs vulnerable to congestion. After filling out a prescription for Merlin, Gaius had him wait in the lobby while he then focused his next exam on Arthur, which consisted mostly of checking his throat and ensuring that the slight ache (that hadn't really been there, but had been the first ailment to pop into Arthur's head) was not strep but the chilly air making his nose run. 

“So, Arthur, do I have the courtesy of knowing who this boy is and why your father can't know about him?” Gaius asked as he tidied up from both exams, a task normally left to his nurses when he didn't have a need for a little extra time to talk to his patients in private.

Arthur sagged on the bed, because if there was one person he wouldn't lie to – and couldn't, considering all that he had asked of him – it was Gaius. The man had caught him when Arthur came into this world, after all. 

“I don't know,” Arthur said, honestly and dejectedly. 

Gaius gave him the arched eyebrow – very much not amused this time. 

Arthur tossed up his hands. “I don't! Honest, Gaius. The only thing I do know is that he's timid as hell, knows how to clean a house and is obviously running from someone who's been hurting him.” He scraped a hand through his hair. “I found him Saturday night sleeping next to a dumpster and... I don't know, I felt bad for him.”

Gaius' second eyebrow joined the first in reaching for his hairline. “Felt bad for him.”

“What, is that honestly so difficult to believe?” Arthur griped.

Gaius held up his hands in surrender, his lips fighting back a smile. “No, no, of course not. A bit random, perhaps.”

“How so?” Arthur asked with narrowed eyes.

“Well, last time you came to see me you had a cut lip and a black eye after getting into a row with a homeless man. He, and I quote, 'kept harassing you for change and like hell you were going to give into that freeloader.'”

“That's because he was a freeloader. I saw him coming out of a pub. Besides, Merlin... didn't ask me for change,” Arthur finished lamely.

“What did he do to warrant your charity?”

Arthur shrugged. “Look utterly cold and pathetic.” Then he sighed, his shoulders dropping and half his upper body with it. “Gaius... I really don't know why I took him in. I just... _did_ , like some part of me couldn't bare the thought of leaving him in the cold. Like seeing him pathetic was all wrong, and not generally wrong but wrong for him. Does that sound insane?”

Gaius hummed thoughtfully. “Actually, I believe they call that having a heart.”

“ _Gaius_...”

“I mean it, Arthur. I know you think yourself some devil-may-care playboy but you're far more compassionate than you give yourself credit for. You need to focus less on why you took this boy in and focus on the fact that by taking him in you've saved his life. Any longer out in the cold and that congestion of his would have become full-blown pneumonia. It could have killed him.”

The revelation made Arthur swallow uncomfortably, he didn't know why except that the thought of Merlin dead was far worse than the thought of him homeless.

“You're giving this poor boy a second chance,” Gaius went on. “Which I highly encourage. Arthur... I know abuse when I see it. Someone has been hurting that boy just as you said and not just physically. That he felt the better alternative was to take his chances on the street should tell us both it was bad – very bad. So focus on helping him and nothing else. You've come this far, so you might as well keep going.”

Arthur sighed. “I suppose. But, I mean it, Gaius, my father can't find out. You know he won't approve.”

Gaius clapped Arthur on the shoulder and smiled. “I know. We keep this between us. In the mean time, make sure that boy takes his medicine, _and_ that he eats three square meals _with_ vegetables and proteins. Get him some of those protein shakes for him to have in between meals, he's malnourished and it's going to slow his recovery.”

Arthur nodded. “I will.”

Gaius smiled fondly at him and squeezed the back of his neck. “You're a good man, Arthur Pendragon.”

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back to the store to get Merlin his means to fight undernourishment might have been awkwardly quiet if it weren't for all the lung-deep and wet coughing on Merlin's part. Arthur had already given Merlin “the lecture” - eat more, take your medicine, drink the shakes I'm about to buy you and whatever you do don't you dare let yourself get so bad off I have to take you to the hospital. And Merlin, ever so eager to please, it seemed, nodded his head with the vigor of one resolute in following orders... which, for some odd reason, also seemed wrong. 

“I'll pay you back, I promise,” Merlin said almost feverishly, but Arthur had waved the promise off. It wasn't as though the check-up had cost an arm and a leg or anything. 

But Merlin had a strange look on his face, and the only way Arthur could describe it was one of wonder having it out with creeping dread, like everything that was happening was too good to be true and it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. But what troubled Arthur was the way Merlin hurried after him when they entered the store, not only dogging his heels but quick and eager to go and fetch whatever they needed that wasn't in the immediate aisle. As endearing as it should have been, as much as Arthur attempted to brush it off as Merlin repaying a benefactor, there was a certain desperation to the eagerness that Arthur wasn't liking, like helping was a matter of life or death for Merlin and woe be unto him if he displeased Arthur in the smallest way.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, and that Merlin's body practically shook with his coughing made it worse. Arthur hurried their little stop along, grabbing only what they came for and anything they might need – specifically milk because Gwaine had the bad habit of going through it like the blasted stuff grew on trees. Finally it was the pharmacy and then they were off, heading back to the flat.

Halfway home, Arthur realized he, maybe, probably, should have also picked up a few basic necessities for Merlin, like a toothbrush, maybe underwear. 

Or maybe a whole wardrobe – the kid had had to borrow Arthur's clothes again, his own clothes in need of another wash. 

Merlin sat there still with that look of bewilderment that was the love-child of hope and dread. Arthur wondered if he should say something, or if saying anything would tip Merlin over into the dread half of his teetering emotions. Playing it safe, Arthur asked him what they should have for dinner tonight. Merlin answered with the timid eagerness of a puppy that he could cook if Arthur wanted, but seeing as how Merlin couldn't stop coughing all over the blasted place that was so far out of the question it shouldn't even have been asked. Arthur said as much – only with actual tact – and suggested Italian instead. Merlin agreed in all his puppy-like glory.

The moment they arrived home, rather than make himself comfortable for a long nap on the couch or Arthur's bed, Merlin began tidying up. There was little to tidy – a jacket here, a DVD not on the rack there, a plate and cup left on the table and not much else - yet Merlin took to it all with that same need to please because so much depended on it. Arthur rolled his eyes and said he didn't have to.

“It's the least I can do,” Merlin said with that same so-very-out-of-place humility. It gave Arthur the bad feeling that he may have created something of a monster – a very subservient and aims-to-please-at-all-cost monster. 

It should have made Arthur question, once again, his decision for bringing this boy into his flat. It should have made him wonder with much guilt and doubt and even a little dread of his own just how the hell he was supposed to help a kid who thought that all good things came with a price – or an ultimatum. But Gaius had told him to focus on the fact that he was helping someone in dire need of aid and, damn it, that was what he was going to do. 

~oOo~

Arthur was going to kill Gaius. Not for any legitimate reason other than his strong encouragement that Arthur continue on the path that was looking after a complete stranger he picked up off the street. Really, this had been Arthur's idea, but it had been backed whole heartedly by that same encouragement, as if Gaius had been there not in flesh but in spirit, cheering Arthur on (although had he been there in the flesh Gaius would have, most likely, done the complete opposite and discouraged Arthur instead).

Merlin needed clothes. Arthur could have purchased a few items here and there since money was rarely an issue for him, but Arthur had felt shopping for the kid who he had picked up off the street for no particular reason pushing it a bit. Plus Arthur hated shopping. Plus it would mean the use of the credit card and that would mean Uther finding out (Arthur's father could deny it all he wanted, Arthur knew Uther read his monthly bill or how else would he know when and what to reprimand Arthur for when it came to his purchases?) Plus it would only send Merlin into a panicked frenzy of trying to repay his benefactor however he could, which could then lead to Merlin back out on the streets under the delusion that he would best serve Arthur by getting out of his hair. 

Arthur was painfully aware that these were excuses, and pathetic excuses considering what he had decided on in opposition to shopping. He was also painfully aware that shopping may have, in fact, been the better alternative.

The address on Merlin's license brought Arthur to an estate that he would best describe as average – neither rich nor poor, neither a slum full of broken doors and chipped paint nor a new establishment only a small number of years old and full of promise. Lived in, that was the better word for it – a _large_ number of years old but comfortable in its own skin. 

Arthur stood in front of the brown metal door on the third level, wondering what the hell he was doing and why he couldn't just cave and buy Merlin the basic necessities rather than deal with whatever and whoever was behind this door. Arthur could take care of himself, that wasn't a problem – club-hopping and pub brawls had seen to that. The problem was the consequences of acknowledging his acquaintance with Merlin and what harm it could mean for the kid. Because for all Arthur knew, whoever was behind this door was still looking for Merlin - looking to finish what he had started. 

Arthur would have turned around right then and there. Fate told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to do any such thing by having the door open without him having to knock. 

The man on the other side looked nothing like Merlin. He was tall, barrel chested, pot-bellied, beady eyed and his dust-colored hair retreating like a sorely defeated battalion from his shiny forehead. He struggled into a brown windbreaker as he regarded Arthur with those beady eyes narrowed in premature annoyance.

“You one of those bloody survey takers? I thought I told you bastards to sod off!”

“I'm not,” Arthur said both quickly and hotly. Honestly, did he even look like a survey taker? 

“Then what do you want?” the man growled.

“I'm looking for the residence of a chap named Merlin. Know him?”

The man, finished working his ungainly way into his jacket, planted his large hands on his large hips and snorted. He smiled. It made Arthur instantly hate him.

“You're from the institution. Still wanting to run your little tests on him? Still think you'll get something from the little freak? Good luck with that, idiot sod's run off. Probably dead. Now if you'll excuse me, the lads are waiting for me at the pub.”

The man made to push past Arthur. Arthur blocked his way, forcing himself to unclench his hands from the fist they'd curled themselves into without him realizing it.

“Actually, I'm here to collect some of Merlin's things.”

The man's tiny eyes widened. It didn't make them any less beady. 

“Oh, you found the little pissant then?” he spat. “I'll not be paying for it, you know that already. He's of age, he's not my responsibility. If anything he should pay me. I feed him, clothe him and the ungrateful little freak can't so much as hold down a job, take care of himself. In fact, if he wants his bloody junk he can just buy it back from me, pay me back for putting him up for as long as I had. You tell that little pissant as much, yeah? No money, no clothes.”

Arthur might as well have gone shopping. He rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet, fished out all the cash he had and held it up.

“I've got a hundred and fifty. How about that?”

“Ha! Not even a start, mate. But I'll take it and you can get his clothes, nothing else.”

The man stepped aside and let Arthur through, expecting him to find his own way but following close behind. Arthur finding his way was about as difficult as navigating a small closet. The place was half the size of Arthur's and reminded Arthur of fecal matter – various shades of brown and stinking horribly of cigarettes, booze, old food and, yes, a recently used loo. The kitchen and living room were practically one, the hallway to the two bedrooms and bathroom with fewer feet than Arthur's bedroom. Merlin's room was at the end, a box of a room as cold and near empty as a storage unit. The walls were white cinder block, there was a bed, a desk that had seen better days back in the 1970s, a handmade shelf struggling to support a grand total of five books, an ancient poster of a jousting knight, and that was it. Well, other than the knick-knacks, mostly pretty rocks, a feather and a few old action figures – most of them missing various limbs.

“You came just in time. I was about to haul all this out,” the man said at Arthur's neck. He stopped, thankfully, at the door as Arthur entered. 

Arthur said nothing. He went to the closet as depressingly sparse as the room and began loading clothes into an old orange duffel bag. He kept the man within his peripheral, but the man seemed about as interested in him as watching paint dry. He hovered and shifted, huffing impatient breaths and letting his gaze wander. Arthur moved deeper into the closet and when he did, he felt a floorboard shift beneath his feet.

Spend half your life hiding favorite candies from spoiled sisters and forbidden magazines from pushy fathers, and you came to know a thing or two not only about hidden floorboards but how to get into them without anyone noticing. As Arthur gathered those shirts that had fallen to the floor, he deftly removed the board and the contents inside. One was a book on Medieval history, the other a rusty tin lunch box. Both he stuffed into the bag. 

“You done, yet?” the man asked. 

“Done,” Arthur said flatly. He set the board back into place. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said twice as flat in passing. 

The man grunted, escorting him to the door not out of courtesy but to continue his trek to the pub. 

“I don't want that freak coming back here, you know,” the man called as he locked his door and Arthur headed quickly away. 

“Believe me, he won't,” Arthur growled.

Back outside, Arthur slid himself into the safety of his car, tossing the bag onto the passenger seat. The rusted box fell out and fell open. Little figurines tumbled out: plastic knights on horseback, five in all. A little plastic king and a little plastic queen. A little plastic wizard with a beard and a pointy hat. Toys of the kind you bought at souvenir shops, probably no more than a quid, yet well cared for as though they had cost far more. Also in the box was a photo of a smiling woman with brown hair and bright eyes, a woman Arthur had seen before in the photo in Merlin's wallet, only this photo less creased and worn. 

Arthur gathered the items back into the box. Then he decided to be honest with himself. 

He knew good and well why he had come here instead of going shopping. 

If asked, he couldn't explain it, not in a way anyone would understand. He had needed to come, wanted to, because a picture had been painted and he had wanted it complete. Not for confirmation – he didn't need confirmation. It was more... knowing thy enemy and all that, because to follow through on his inexplicable need to help Merlin then he needed to know what he was up against.

Which sounded... a little on the extreme side, to be honest. The man wanted nothing to do with Merlin, was glad to see him gone, was getting rid of his stuff and Arthur doubted the man would so much as blink should he happen to pass Merlin on the streets. But the man was a bastard and Merlin was afraid of him, and that was all that mattered. Know Merlin's enemy for Merlin's sake.

And it felt good, facing Merlin's tormentor like that, and made him wish he had done more – told the bastard to leave Merlin alone or something, or at least told him point blank that he wasn't from some damn institute. 

Speaking of...

~oOo~

“Merlin, you're not mentally unstable are you?”

Merlin, just finishing up the dishes now sparkling clean and devoid of pasta sauce, nearly dropped the last of the plates in alarm.

“What? No. No I'm... I'm fine.”

“So you've never been institutionalized.”

Merlin's face drained of so much blood it seemed a miracle he was still standing. “Wha... how...?”

Arthur held up the orange duffel. Merlin's face lost another quart of blood.

“Don't worry,” Arthur said gently. He set the bag on the table well within Merlin's reach. “He doesn't know you're here. He thinks I'm from some... institution or whatever. But you're staying with me, now, so if there's anything of a... mental or emotional nature I should know about--”

Merlin shook his head. “There isn't. It's not that kind of institution. It... they just want to know if I'm gifted.”

“Gifted? As in intelligent gifted?”

Merlin shrugged a shaky shoulder. “Something like that. Mum took me to this place to get tested and they got all excited. But... but Frank wasn't happy about it. Thought he'd have to pay for it and such, even though they said he didn't.”

“Frank. You're father?”

Merlin placed the plate in the rack, deliberately avoiding Arthur's gaze. “He's not my dad. Mum married him long after dad died. He was nice then but... he wasn't later, especially after mum died.”

By all that was holy was there anything in this boy's life that wasn't a tragedy? Arthur scraped his hand through his hair, then nudged the bag closer. “Well, as long as I don't have to worry about you sleepwalking through windows or something. All your clothes are in this bag.”

Merlin looked up, surprised. “Frank let you have them?”

“I talked him into it,” Arthur said vaguely. 

Merlin, wearing a look of wonder on his face, moved to the bag and gathered it to his chest. He began heading to the bedrooms, but managed as far as the couch before he set the bag down and opened it. He froze. 

He looked at Arthur. He looked at the bag. Emotions dashed across his face like a stampede – alarm, astonishment, then something so blasted heartbreaking that for a moment Arthur was sure he had done something wrong. Merlin's eyes were shiny – lords, they were shiny and tears were tumbling down his face. He'd made Merlin cry, like an emotional little girl. Lovely. Arthur had a hard enough time dealing with emotional women, he had no bloody clue as to what to do about an emotional _bloke_. 

“Thank you.”

Arthur blinked, snapping from his mounting panic. “Um... you're welcome.”

But Merlin shook his head. “Thank you. For... for everything.” He looked up at Arthur, eyes red-rimmed and tear tracks glittering on his face. “Why are you helping me?”

This time, Arthur didn't bristle, he shrugged. “Why not?”

It wasn't a sufficient answer. Hell, it wasn't even an answer. But Merlin, either out of courtesy or fear or not caring because he had something precious returned to him, smiled a tremulous smile, nodded, and continued on his way to the bedroom, the bag clutched like a long lost loved one to his thin chest. 

Arthur grinned, feeling bloody damn good about it. 

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of pre-Arthur/Gwen acknowledgement in this but nothing heavy handed.

The thing about illnesses was that they were bastards, and the reason why they were bastards – beyond the usual aches and pains and general misery – was because they liked to get worse before they got better. They were also hell-bent on sticking around for as long as they could get away with it. 

Merlin's medicines helped him with the congestion, aches and fever but did little against the lethargy. If Arthur had thought Merlin was sleeping his life away before, it was nothing compared to now. It didn't matter how many naps the kid took, even awake he looked in desperate need of more sleep. All Arthur could say was thank goodness for the protein shakes, soup and cereal, which was all Merlin had the appetite for these days. 

And yet the idiot still insisted on tidying up despite Arthur's stern orders not to. But Merlin, as Arthur soon found out, was surprisingly sneaky for someone so timid. The flat remained so spotless it was easy to forget that two people... no, three now... lived there. 

The only thing the illness couldn't do, it seemed, was keep Merlin out of sight when it most mattered. Of all the times Merlin had to be awake, parked listlessly on the couch and watching TV just as listlessly while nursing a protein shake, it would be when Morgana decided to drop by – in pure Morgana fashion – without warning. 

While Arthur wasn't home. 

When Arthur walked into his flat, it was like walking into an interior design war zone. Morgana had been shopping – again – dragging a flustered Gwen with her – again – and had decided - _again_ \- to take it upon herself to make Arthur's flat a bastion of domestic beauty with new curtains. Merlin was huddled in his usual place, clutching his drink like a life-line and watching the proceedings with the trepidation of one wondering if they needed to stop this but not having to the courage to try. The look he shot Arthur when Arthur had dropped his brief case – loudly – was helpless, pathetic and contrite.

“You're place was in dire need of new curtains, Arthur,” Morgana said, fixing the newly burdened curtain rod back into place over the sliding door to the balcony. At least they were dark blue curtains instead of the white lacy things Morgana was rather fond of. “Don't argue it.”

“Morgana, I've long since learned not to argue with you on matters of home decorating, you know this.” He rolled his eyes at Merlin, who responded with a hesitant smile. 

Arthur then looked at Gwen who was neatly folding the old white curtains and placing them in one of the shopping bags. She looked up at him, smiled shyly and it made Arthur's heart skip several happy beats in his chest.

“I tried to stop her but you know how she is,” Gwen said.

“Mm-hmm. Let me guess. She bought them for her place but they didn't go with anything in her wardrobe,” Arthur said.

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Morgana said. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. After a satisfied nod, she went over to Arthur and kissed him on the cheek. “Can't a sister do something nice for her brother?”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “Can't you practice your design fetish on your own place?”

“When mine is perfect and yours so drab? Really, Arthur. I think you should be thanking me. I am doing this for free, you know.” She looked around. “And I must say it's nice to finally see you taking care of the place. Finally caved and hired a maid?”

Arthur smiled saccharine at her. “You'll never know. Now, do you want tea or something or are you off now that you played Frankenstein with my windows?” He made his way into the kitchen. “Gwen?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing for me, thank you,” Gwen said brightly. A bubble of disappointment popped in Arthur's chest. 

“We do have to be off,” Morgana said, gathering her shopping bags half scattered around the place. As she did so, and while Arthur rummaged through the fridge, she leaned in and said under her breath, “Arthur, where did you find Merlin? He's absolutely _adorable_.”

“Why? Want one of your own?”

Morgana elbowed him none too gently. “I'm serious. Arthur, most of the friends you make are worth less than the gum I scrape off the bottom of my shoe. Do you know what the first thing Merlin did when he let us in?”

“Ah, so it's his fault.”

“Quiet Arthur. So the poor thing's shaking like a leaf, looking like warmed-over death and not only does he offer to make us tea and help put the curtains up, but he didn't once try to hit on us. Arthur, I didn't think you had it in you to actually make a friend with manners.”

Arthur glanced over the fridge door at the subject in question. He was currently chatting it up with Gwen who was leaning over the couch. Really, it was mostly Gwen doing the chatting, Merlin smiling shyly, nodding and occasionally giving a brief verbal answer. But that was Gwen for you. All she had to do was walk into a room and one couldn't help but smile.

Arthur was brought back into the conversation with another elbow to the ribs. 

“Seriously, Arthur, where did you meet him?” Morgana asked.

Arthur shrugged and resumed his rummaging, mostly to look busy, also mostly hoping Morgana would drop the subject and go away. “He's... just a mate who needed a place to stay, that's all. I am capable of making polite friends, Morgana. Why does it matter? Do you fancy him or something?”

“Not really,” Morgana said dismissively. “Too skinny and too young. But there's a sad lack of sweet gentlemen in the world and I don't want you corrupting him.”

“I doubt I could if I tried,” Arthur muttered. He stared into the fridge now currently cluttered with protein shakes of various flavors and other foods – store bought foods in vacuum packs and cartons rather than take out boxes. The last time he'd seen a fridge this well-stocked had been when he was living at home. But Merlin needed more than protein shakes and take-out, even if his appetite wasn't up to par at the moment. 

Arthur really couldn't get over how much he was doing for this kid. 

“Well, whoever he is, I will admit it's sweet you're helping him,” Morgana said, emphasizing the praise with a pat on his suit-jacket clad back. 

Both girls left, Morgana sauntering through the door loaded with her shopping bags and Gwen following more demurely behind, giving Arthur and Merlin a little wave goodbye that made Arthur's heart twirl. 

Arthur plopped himself onto the couch with a sigh. Morgana's and Gwen's visits always did seem to take a lot out of him, especially when they happened just after work. 

“You're sister and Gwen are nice,” Merlin said.

Arthur looked at the boy, rendered silent by a brief moment of shock. Merlin had talked, without any prompting. The kid was actually starting a conversation on his own terms. 

Then Arthur realized what Merlin had just said and chuffed. “Yes, well, try being Morgana's brother, then you'd be singing a different tune. But, yes, about Gwen. She's very nice.”

“You fancy her?” Merlin said. At Arthur's sharp look, Merlin quickly looked away, hunching a little. “Sorry. Sorry, it's just... she'd look at you when when we were talking. And you seemed to smile at her a lot...”

Arthur stared, bewildered, at Merlin. Sneaky, talkative, now far more observant than Arthur had given him credit for – wonders truly never did cease. 

“We're not together, if that's what you think,” Arthur said. 

Merlin nodded, then rubbed the back of his neck while smiling tentatively. “Yeah. There would have been a bit of snogging if you were together, I think.”

Which had Arthur burst out a good laugh. “Yeah, probably.” If only.

“My dad – my real dad – would kiss my mum when he would get home. That's what I remember most about him,” Merlin said.

“How old were you when he died?” Arthur asked, and realizing too late that it might not yet be a subject Merlin was willing to touch on.

But Merlin replied readily enough, “About five, I think. He was a doctor, was working late and fell asleep in his car while driving home.”

Arthur could feel his features go soft with sympathy. “I'm sorry,” he said. 

Merlin shrugged, saying nothing for a moment, until he looked at Arthur with a small smile. “You should ask Gwen out.”

“Oh, I should, should I?” Arthur said, grinning. “Fancy yourself a matchmaker or something?”

Merlin's bony shoulders bounced a second time, but he was smiling. Arthur found this slowly blossoming openness of Merlin's fascinating. It made Arthur suddenly realize how little he actually knew about Merlin, that behind the shield of fear and wariness was a personality that had nothing to do with everything he'd suffered. Arthur was, he realized, literally beginning to see the start of a whole other person. 

“You should be with the one you want to be with, is all,” Merlin said quietly. “If she's the one you want to be with.”

Arthur felt his smile begin to slip. A thousand reasons as to why Arthur had never asked Gwen out filled his mind, pouring down to the tip of his tongue where it all waited to enlighten Merlin as to why being with the one you wanted wasn't always that easy. His father wouldn't approve of her, and like hell Arthur was going to put Gwen through the misery that was Uther's disapproval. Gwen deserved better than Arthur, and like hell Arthur was going to put Gwen through the misery that was having to put up with him. And on, and on. 

“To enjoy every moment you have with them,” Merlin went on absently.

Arthur felt irritation suddenly surge through him. Of course he wanted to spend every moment with Gwen, but it wasn't that simple. And here Merlin was, some kid off the streets, a complete stranger trying to fill him with all this pointless hope. Then Arthur looked at Merlin, the way his head kept bobbing and eyes attempted to slide shut. Arthur sighed, highly doubting the boy knew what he was even talking about.

“Merlin, you're knackered. Why don't you go lay down on my bed for a bit.”

Merlin obeyed, setting his protein shake on the stand by the couch. Even Merlin's own clothes did little to free him of that little boy aura as he shuffled sleepily to Arthur's room, coughing wetly along the way. 

Arthur's irritation was instantly forgotten as it often was when people brought up him and Gwen. _Merlin doesn't know what he's talking about_ , Arthur reminded himself. But it made him wonder if Merlin was one of those obnoxiously optimistic types who believed true love trumped all. Because if he was, Arthur had to admire it. He couldn't begin to imagine living the life Merlin had and still be able to find room for hope. 

Arthur was taken out of his thoughts by Gwaine walking in, returned home from a day of posing for the camera, possibly with gorgeous, half-dressed women hanging off him while doing so. It was confirmed by the crap-eating grin Gwaine was currently wearing. Then one look at the new curtains and Gwaine's smile about split his face.

“Another visit from your lovely sister. A shame I missed it.”

“You mean a shame you missed Morgana,” Arthur said, eyes narrowed.

Gwaine leaped onto the corner of the couch formerly occupied by Merlin. He grabbed Merlin's can of shake and shook it, listening for the amount of content still remaining. “Can I help it if I'm persistent?”

“Can you help it if you're pathetic and barking up the wrong tree? Which you are. Merlin drank out of that, by the way.”

Gwaine, can halfway to his mouth, quickly set it aside. “So,” he said jauntily. He waggled his eyebrows. “Was Gwen with her?”

Arthur groaned. “Not you too.”

“What? I didn't say anything.”

“Merlin did.”

Gwaine's eyes widened. “Really? You mean he actually talks?”

“He does now. Look, Gwaine, I told you. Gwen and I it just... it wouldn't be easy on her, you know that.”

“Actually, what I know is that for all your talk about daddy not dictating your life you're certainly letting him do quite a bit of dictating, even when he isn't here to dictate. You've yet to let him put a dent in your night life, why do you let him your love life?”

Arthur growled, dropping his head back against the couch. “I don't want to talk about this right now, Gwaine.”

“Bit late for that but okay. You're choice if you want to live the rest of your life as a lonely, miserable miser woeing over what might have been--”

“Gwaine?”

“Yes?”

“Shut it.”

Gwaine gave him an impudent salute. “Yes, oh capitan!” He graced Arthur with a moment of simpering smiles, then asked. “So, where's the little invalid gone off to?”

“You mean Merlin?”

“I do believe he's the only invalid at the moment.”

“My room, sleeping.”

Gwaine bobbed his head. “You know, we could put a second bed in my room. It's large enough, and it's not like I'm home enough to disturb him.”

Arthur frowned a little at the suggestion, not out of disapproval but because the thought of actually getting Merlin a bed had never crossed his mind. Mostly because there had never been a reason. Even after... how many days was it, now, since he invited Merlin over? Well over nearly over two weeks, in point of fact; two weeks of Merlin staying here, and Arthur still maintained the impression of his presence being temporary. 

Merlin, when not sleeping, coughing up a lung or zoning out because it was time for more rest, would sometimes be found on Arthur's home laptop, scouring for jobs. Arthur had once provided the suggestion of Merlin possibly contacting old employers. And Merlin had replied in that contrite, apologetic way of his that he didn't think it would do any good. 

“I was never good at keeping a job,” Merlin had said. “I was either always getting sick, or wasn't strong enough to lift things. They thought I was being useless, but I did try. I just...” he'd trailed off as if a part of him was unsure if it wasn't actually his own fault he'd gotten fired. Arthur had a pretty good idea that it wasn't Merlin's fault at all. People who stole money from their dad's wallets just to buy food couldn't exactly be accused of slacking off. 

Arthur had told Merlin to take all the time he needed to find work, with the impression that work would eventually be found, Merlin would be making his own money and eventually be able to afford his own place. 

But with Merlin's track record where luck was concerned, and what would be a less than stellar employment record, the best Merlin would be able to hope for in terms of lodging would be a small step up from sleeping next to a dumpster, and that was about it. 

Arthur hadn't thought about it, believing there hadn't been a reason to think on it, but why couldn't Merlin stay here? He wouldn't have to contribute much to the rent, and what he did contribute would still be a cut in rent for Arthur and Gwaine. The boy already knew how to pull his own weight, and his presence wasn't even remotely imposing. 

“True,” Arthur said. He looked at Gwaine. “If you clear your room of that toxic gas you call free samples.”

“Hey, some of those colognes cost more than you make in a week.”

“And yet most of them smell like something thrown together in a chemical plant then left out in the sun to rot for a few days. Go back to modeling underwear. At least free samples of underwear are actually useful.” Especially when Gwaine would make sure to bring home an extra pack for Arthur. 

Gwaine lifted his hands as if to say 'what can you do?' What he could do was simple – go back to modeling underwear. The only reason he'd taken the cologne gig was because he'd be posing with female models. 

“Fine, I'll get rid of the colognes. Except the Chanel. No one touches the Chanel,” Gwaine said.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Arthur muttered. 

~oOo~

_“Destinies are troublesome things,” Merlin said sagely. “You feel trapped, like your whole life is being planned out for you and you've got no control over anything, and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny decided is really the best thing at all.”_

_“How come you're so knowledgeable?” Arthur asked._

_“Hmm? Oh, I read a book.”_

_“What would this book tell you? Should I marry her?”_

_“That's not really my place to say so.”_

_“I'm asking you, it's your job to answer.”_

_“If you really want to know what I think... I think you're mad, I think you're all mad. People should marry for love, not convenience. And if Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he's wrong. 'Cause you may be destined to rule Camelot, but you have a choice...as to how you do it.”_  
~oOo~

Arthur woke with a snort, his hand flailing in search of a clock that wasn't there. Right, he'd taken the couch, not wanting to interrupt what had looked like the best sleep Merlin had had since falling ill. Groggy and aching, Arthur rolled from the couch onto the carpeted floor and made his way to his room, until he remembered that it was the weekend and he didn't have to get up until he wanted to. Arthur turned, making his way out of the room back toward the couch.

Soft, pitiful whimpers stopped him. He turned to his bed currently occupied by Merlin, who was currently squirming in his sleep. Arthur could hear his breathing, not as wet as before but fast and frantic. Arthur saw the dark blob of Merlin's blanket-wrapped body curl tightly into itself, shudder then uncurl enough to flop briefly onto his back, Arthur's eyes adjusted enough to show him the rapid rise and fall of the skinny chest. 

“No,” Merlin said, small and plaintive. “No. S'pposed to take me. Nimueh...”

Arthur frowned, although far be it from him to try and interpret the rambling of dreams, especially the dreams of a kid who'd spent much of his life having his arse handed to him. 

But then there it was again – that sense of wrongness, of witnessing something so out of place it made Arthur's stomach twist. Merlin curled so tightly he'd become little more than a ball of skin and bone, quivering and whimpering like a lost child, scared even in his sleep. 

Arthur didn't have a clue as to what to do about it. Maybe ask Gaius about whatever medication Merlin was taking, see if there was an alternative that didn't cause him pointless night terrors, but that was only if the drugs were even to blame.

Merlin's next whimper sounded suspiciously like a sob. 

Arthur had once heard that you should never wake someone who was having a nightmare. Or was that sleep walking? Like he remembered and like he cared. He went to Merlin, and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, shook him.

“Merlin? Merlin, wake up, it's just a dream.”

Rather than waking, Merlin curled tighter, shaking harder, as if bracing himself for something even more unpleasant than whatever he was dreaming about. Arthur sighed heavily.

“Oh, you poor kid,” he muttered. He squeezed Merlin's shoulder. When he did, Merlin stopped shaking. When Arthur released him, it was only seconds later that Merlin resumed his trembling.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.” 

Arthur may not have grown up with a mother, but he'd had his Nan who'd known a thing or two about calming childhood nightmares. Arthur recalled quite clearly the many times he'd woken up in his Nan's lap, or with his Nan sitting next to him rubbing his back through some nightmare or fear of monsters. Arthur had no doubts Merlin's mother had probably done the same. 

Except Merlin was no child and Arthur no one's bloody Nan or mum. 

Neither could he seem to bring himself to leave Merlin to his dreams. 

“Just for a moment,” Arthur promised himself. “Until he calms down.” Arthur went back into the living room, grabbed his blanket and wrapped himself in it as he settled upright in the bed next to Merlin – no sense in getting comfortable since he wasn't falling asleep. He didn't exactly look when he placed his hand on Merlin, hoping to aim for the shoulder but feeling the vivid bars of Merlin's ribcage instead. Arthur grimaced at the clarity of bone and the speed at which those bones expanded and contracted. He also felt Merlin's frantic heartbeat, the heat of his fever, the vibrations of his voice whenever he groaned and whimpered, his shaking, and Arthur found himself moving his hand back and forth the way his Nan would to rub his back, and prayed that Merlin didn't wake up or Gwaine walk in. 

It did the job, though. Merlin eventually stilled, the whimpers and pleading fading into nothing, and Arthur felt the bones beneath his palm contract on a long, peaceful sigh. 

Seeing as how it would be too soon to stop, Arthur kept rubbing and let his eyes close, just for a moment. 

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

_“I'm Happy to be your servant, until the day I die.”_

_Arthur stood before the stone that Merlin had brought him to, the sword it held shining like quicksilver and the sun. He saw his people before him, waiting with held breath, felt Merlin behind him, smiling, encouraging him with his presence alone. The doubt that had crippled Arthur slowly bled from him as he gripped the blade. He pulled, and pulled, and the blade slipped free._

_Merlin, sneaky man that he was, always knew how to make Arthur remember what it was to believe in himself._  
~oOo~

“Wha...?” Arthur gasped, peeling open his sticky eyelids. He looked around his room gray lit with the coming morning, then down at the source of warmth heating up his palm. He quickly snatched his hand away from off of Merlin's ribs. Merlin was still curled up, but it was a lose curl, his breathing gentle and even. 

Arthur made a break for it back to the couch while he could. Providing comfort was all well and good, but were Merlin to wake and catch Arthur in the act it would most likely only freak him out. Were Gwaine to catch him in the act, Arthur would never hear the end of it, especially if it got back to Morgana, which it would, because Morgana may have hated Gwaine's guts when he flirted with her but she _adored_ his stories about Arthur. 

Speaking of Morgana...

Arthur groaned piteously, amazed and a little disgusted with himself at what he was fathoming. But if there was anyone more capable when it came to shopping than Morgana, Arthur doubted such a person existed. Morgana may have loved any and all reasons to shop but even Arthur had to admit she was brilliant at it. She knew how to find the best discounts, how _not_ to over-max a credit card, and having an interior design fetish, she knew all about furniture. 

Arthur waited until after breakfast to call her, when he was more awake.

“Oh, Arthur, that is so precious!” Morgana simpered in delight. “Buying a bed for Merlin and letting him stay with you. I always knew that deep down inside you were nothing but pudding. Vanilla pudding. Kind of bland but still sweet.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine, I'm pudding.... pudding, really?” He twitched his head. Now was not the time for verbal sparring, which Morgana mostly won, anyway. “Look, you're the furniture expert--”

“I am, and you were very wise to come to me.”

“ _But_ I'm the one who'll be paying for this and I don't want anything fancy. None of your... cherry-oak-cedar antique whatever nonsense. It needs to be big enough to fit into Gwaine's room without taking up unnecessary space and it needs to be comfortable.”

“Oh, Arthur, you're no fun,” Morgana mock-pouted.

“Morgana, I mean it. It needs to be about comfort, not about whatever was featured in one of your interior design magazines.”

“Arthur, relax. I was kidding. Besides, I pick anything fancy Gwaine'll probably claim it just to impress whoever he brings home. Are you sure having Merlin share a room with him is a good idea?”

“I'm hoping it'll discourage him from bringing anyone home.”

“Ah, excellent point. You leave this bed business to me and I'll let you know when it's time to make a purchase. I'm in need of some new throw pillows, anyway.”

Morgana hung up. Arthur stared at his now quiet cell, surprised that Morgana had been able to keep the mocking to such a minimum. 

Arthur went to his room, mostly to get clothes, partly to check on Merlin to make sure he was still sleeping peacefully. He was, his limbs loose and his breathing even. And though his face was still pale, there wasn't as much of a flush to his cheeks. Arthur grabbed his clothes and prepared for a day of doing absolutely nothing. 

“Not even tonight?” Gwaine said when he woke, asked what the plan for today was and Arthur said nothing. “No clubbing?” He sounded rather put out about it. “That'll make it two weeks we haven't gone. Bit of a sad record for us if you think about it.”

“It's not like I'm stopping you,” Arthur said from where he had sprawled out on the couch. He was wearing sweats, his university hoodie and was feeling incredibly comfortable despite the awkward sleep he'd had. 

“Is the kid okay?” Gwaine asked.

“He's fine. I just don't feel like going out.” And inadvertently picking up another stray in the process, Arthur thought. But neither was that the reason he felt like staying in. He had no reason, to be honest, he simply lacked the desire to go out and get hammered, that was all. Neither was he surprised by it. It had been such an odd few weeks what with the whole Merlin situation that seemed to occupy most of his thoughts these days, leaving little to no room for the usual annoyances that was his father and his mundane existence at work. 

Gwaine, being his usual gaudy and unabashed self dressed in only boxers, plopped himself onto the only available spot of couch with a smile on his face that Arthur was very much not liking. 

“Can we...?” Gwaine began.

Arthur frowned. “No.”

“Oh, come on. It's not the same as going out. It's just a couple of the lads, a few snacks, some cards. You don't even have to join in if you don't want. And I'll keep it quiet, I promise.” Gwaine gave him a big-eyed look. “Hey, come on, it's only fair. You know I've been wanting to have a game with the lads for some time but I always said no and you know why? Because you know I'll always be your wingman when you need to blow off some steam, yeah?”

Morgana was right, Arthur was made of pudding, or was starting to turn into pudding. Arthur, after a quick eye roll, bobbed his head, and the flood gates opened. Gwaine was up, had his phone in hand and so spent the rest of the morning refusing to dress until he'd phoned all the boys. Arthur supposed it really was only fair. Card games used to be the staple of their night life back during their uni days, then came Arthur's forced employment at the family business that no card game could cure and poker night had become a thing of the past. 

To be honest, Arthur had missed it. Clubbing was all fine and well to work off a store of energy, but you couldn't exactly call it a night with friends with the majority of them distracted by girls. And most of those nights Arthur couldn't even remember. 

Merlin managed to wake before noon. Instead of his usual greeting of timid uncertainty as though still half-fearing that Arthur planned to kick him out at any moment, Merlin greeted Arthur with a small, friendly smile. Arthur was immediately suspicious.

“Sleep well?” Arthur asked, managing to make it sound off-handed.

“Yeah,” Merlin said. “I actually feel more awake today.”

“No... odd dreams or anything?”

Merlin, making his way to the kitchen, shrugged. “Aren't most dreams odd?”

Arthur glanced at Merlin in mild surprise, because he was quite sure Merlin was being cheeky. He was certainly showing far more comfort in his surroundings and situation these days, and he'd smiled, without any prompting on Arthur's part. 

Merlin had his breakfast, then he cleaned, which Arthur told him he didn't have to do but it only made Merlin smile, again.

“I don't mind. It gives me something to do, actually,” Merlin said. 

Arthur shrugged. Far be it from him to deny someone such a useful form of entertainment. 

The rest of the day was spent getting things ready for poker night – mostly by Gwaine, who must have finished making all the needed calls since he was finally dressed, and Merlin, wrangled into helping simply because of his need to be helpful. Arthur mostly sat back and ignored them in favor of watching TV. 

The glass table was soon converted into something that would be more at home in Vegas, covered by the green felt mat that Gwaine always said gave the games a legitimate feel. The cards were out, the poker chips stack neatly in their box, and bowls at the ready for salty, blood-congealing snacks. So enthused by the prospect of poker night, Gwaine didn't even try to talk Arthur into doing a bit of grocery shopping. Gwaine actually went himself. Arthur was quite sure that was one of the lesser signs of the Apocalypse. Merlin busied himself with extra tidying and looking rather pleased about it, like the more useful he could be the happier he was. 

“You a poker man, Merlin?” Arthur asked over his shoulder while Merlin wiped down the kitchen counters.

“Er... Not really,” Merlin said. “I've never played before.”

“Well, you can always sit and watch. Frankly I think Percival's attempts at cheating are far more entertaining than the game itself.”

Arthur heard Merlin chuckle. 

Gwaine returned an hour and a half later loaded down with bags full of things they would regret eating later but love in the moment – not just chips but pretzels, popcorn, one of those pre-made meat and cheese platters, little wrapped sausages, little hot wings that he didn't waste time popping into the oven, and a psychotic amount of Guinness. Oh, and not a vegetable in sight. Gwaine was like a kid the night before Christmas, or a kid on a sugar high, buzzing about and annoying Arthur with his energy and yammering. 

Merlin mostly thought it funny, smiling and laughing as Gwaine regaled him with tales of past poker games, like the time they all got so drunk Percy thought they were playing Rummy, Elyan Egyptian War, Lance had tried and failed to build a card castle and Arthur had tossed the bowl of pretzels at Leon when he had suggested strip poker. 

Then seven rolled around, and the idiots in question arrived, filling the flat with manly chaos until it was time for the game to start. They gathered around the table, each with their own Guinness – except for Merlin, who confessed rather contritely to not being much of a drinker, but who couldn't drink, anyway, seeing as he was still on medication – and a plate of wings and wrapped sausages. The bowls of chips and pretzels were gathered in the center of the table within easy reach.

“So, Merlin,” Percival said. “What misfortune landed you with the bad luck that is knowing Arthur?”

Arthur tried very hard not to stiffen and look alarmed. He knew the question was going to be asked – mostly as a conversation topic – and Arthur had thought himself adequately prepared with a dismissive response of 'oh, you know, the usual – out clubbing, got drunk, made a friend.' But Merlin beat him to the answer.

“I, um... I needed a place to stay,” was all he said.

Leon nodded sagely. “Ah, the old taking in the strays. That's how I met both Arthur and Gwaine. They were so bloody pissed there was no way they were getting home and I said they could crash at my flat.”

Gwaine chuckled. “And I woke thinking you'd had your way with me, remember that?” Being next to Merlin, he nudged him lightly with his elbow. “I didn't have a shirt on. Turned out I'd puked all over it.”

“And luckily you were so hung over you couldn't land a decent punch to save your life,” Leon said, chuckling back.

“Is getting drunk how you all met?” Merlin asked, which resulted in a rowdy burst of guffaws. 

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Elyan when he was able to catch his breath. 

“Not Merlin,” Arthur said, tossing in two cards. “Actually you're the first to come into any of our good graces sober.”

“But, er... you were a bit drunk, though,” Merlin said, rubbing the back of his neck with uncertainty. He gave a nervous, breathy laugh. “You could barely walk, as I recall.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. “True.” Merlin seemed about to shrink back, clearly under the impression that he had said something wrong. Then Arthur held up a finger in triumph.

“Ah, but I was sober enough to drive when I invited you over. Therefore, technically, I wasn't drunk. So, therefore, we can finally say we have an acquaintance not the result of idiotic amounts of inebriation. Gentlemen, we are capable of making friends sober. Or at least some of us are.”

“Here, here,” said Gwaine, raising his bottle. “I, too, was sober. Mostly, I think.”

Merlin's smile was so big it made his eyes squint, and something about the smile filled Arthur with warm contentment. Of all the things that had felt so out-of-place when it came to Merlin, Arthur finally had the impression that he was seeing something that was pure Merlin. 

The game wore on, the night dragging by, food and Guinness consumed, it seemed, by the pound. The conversation wandered as conversations did, loud and bawdy and full of free-spirited fun. Talks of recent escapades turned to complaints about work and how annoying their bosses were.

“What is it you all do?” Merlin said, still with that very Merlin smile on his face. While the rest of them were beginning to feel the first buzz of alcohol, Merlin seemed to be gaining energy like a child eating too many sweets. He was alert, sitting straighter, his eyes darting from person to person, soaking in their conversation like water on dry soil. 

Percival had already mentioned his job as a bouncer, since that's where his more entertaining stories came from. Lance worked as a fencing instructor, Leon for a security firm, Elyan in textiles, and of course Merlin already knew Gwaine was a model.

“I work for my father at his company,” Arthur said. “Data entry, for the most part, and that's only when I'm not suffering my brains turning to liquid when he has me sit in on one of his endless meetings.”

“He's groomed to take over the business,” Lance said cheerfully. 

“Yes, because apparently my father is under the impression that it was the only career choice I ever thought to consider,” Arthur said bitterly, only partially aware of the Guinness loosening his tongue to uncomfortable proportions. 

“Ha!” Gwaine barked. “Like you even had a career choice. Come on, Princess, it isn't all that bad. Your dear old dad's a bloody millionaire.”

“It's a good business,” Elyan explained to Merlin. “It owns several well known pharmaceutical and textile companies, like the one I work for. Provides loads of jobs and the medicines they've come out with have helped a ton of people. They even saved a few companies from going under, kept people from losing employment. Right, Arthur?”

Arthur grunted noncommittal, mostly because Elyan was right. The company may have been mind-numbingly dull to work for, but it was a good business. 

The conversation meandered on, from jobs to future plans for the weekend. They talked of accumulating enough time off for a real vacation, and just like that they found themselves making plans to go somewhere and do something, something that involved getting out of the city, maybe do a bit of sight-seeing or camping. Just for the sake of something different.

“We're out of chips and sausages,” Percival announced.

“Yeah, and who's fault is that?” said Elyan. “You practically inhaled it all.”

“I'll get some more,” Arthur said, already getting up.

Gwaine swatted the idea aside. “Nah, we're good. Plenty left to eat.”

“True but I want more Doritoes. I love Doritoes.” Which was the alcohol talking, because as much as he loved Doritoes they usually weren't worth heading out into the cold night to get, even with the shop just down the street.

“I can get them for you,” Merlin said eagerly, hopping up from his chair.

Arthur shook his head. “No, I got this.”

“Better go with him, Merlin,” Gwaine said with a twinkle in his eye. “Even slightly buzzed Arthur doesn't have that great a sense of direction.”

“Oh, sod off!” Arthur barked.

But it was too late, the suggestion had been planted in Merlin's mind and rather than take it as the joke it was, Merlin took it as an order of the highest caliber. Arthur tried to get him to not come, reminding him that he was still sick, even if it wasn't quite so bad anymore, and that he might make himself more sick stepping out into the cold. Merlin dismissed it all cheerily.

“I'm hardier than I look,” he said. 

Arthur snorted, but gave up trying to stop Merlin. They bundled themselves into their coats and stepped out into the chilly night. 

“Do you not want to take over your dad's business?” Merlin asked as they walked down the street that crunched with frost. 

Arthur took a deep breath of frigid air, the biting cold entering his lungs clearing his mind, some. “I'll be honest. I've never particularly considered what I wanted. But I'm sure I'm not the right man for the job. My father is the one with the head for business, not me.”

“But you could learn,” Merlin said. Despite his earlier claims of being hardy, and even wrapped in his coat as he was, he had his arms folded tight against his chest, his body slightly hunched against the cold. The complete opposite of Arthur who was mostly loose limbed even with a chilled breeze blowing.

Arthur scoffed. “Possibly. But I think the safer bet would be to sign the company over to someone my father can be sure won't run it into the ground. I don't even know why he bothers to train me, he's forever going on and on about how I'm not ready and probably never will be. Why not make life easier on the both of us and find someone better suited for the job? Lords, you'd think it was a bloody kingdom he was running.”

Merlin shrugged. “Maybe he thinks you are capable, he just won't admit it.”

“Ha!” Arthur said.

They arrived at the store and bought five bags of chips, plus some queso dip, because Arthur suddenly found himself in the mood for queso dip. He also bought some hot chocolate powder, because Merlin was staring at it like it was a steak and he was starving.

The stepped from the warmth of the store into bone-numbing cold. 

They were not even a fourth of a block away when it happened. Two men burst from the shadows, jittery and bellowing as they demanded money. The one making the demands was holding a knife pointed at Arthur. The other was standing in front of Merlin, fingers twitching and ready to act if Merlin tried anything. When Merlin backed up, the man moved with him until the poor kid was pinned against the wall.

“Give me your money!” 

“All right, all right!” Arthur said, so flustered and frightened that in his attempt to get to his wallet the bags he didn't think to drop got in the way, turning what should have been only seconds long into minutes, aggravating the man to the point of maddened frenzy.

“I said give me your bloody wallet!” he snarled, his blood shot eyes wide. He lunged for Arthur.

Merlin shouted, “No!”

Suddenly, both men went flying back as if hit with an unseen force. They landed on their backs, briefly dazed. The man without the knife recovered first. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed his partner and practically dragged him in his need to get away and get away, now.

Arthur stood there, bags about to slip from his limp hands. He looked at Merlin, hunched and trembling against the wall, but it wasn't the retreating men he was staring at with wide, terrified eyes.

It was Arthur.

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to I'm... I'm sorry,” he babbled over and over. Then Arthur realized he was inching away from Arthur, still against the wall and still cringing but his body language screaming of how he was about to run.

Arthur quickly and messily transferred the bags to his other hand while placing himself in front of Merlin. He placed his free hand on Merlin's shaking shoulder.

“Merlin, are you all right? Did that man hurt you?”

Merlin shook his head. His face was pale, almost glowing in the night. He wouldn't stop shaking, and if his breathing kept picking up speed he was going to hyperventilate. 

Thoughts of shock filled Arthur's head, and he wrapped his arm around Merlin's shoulders, steering him back around toward home. Arthur's own heart was racing, his body vibrating with adrenaline and fear and worry. Great, they would probably both drop dead from shock before they so much as got to the door.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin went on. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.”

“Do what?” Arthur said absently, more concerned with getting them home. 

“The men,” Merlin said. “What happened to them.”

Arthur looked down at Merlin, puzzled. 

Right. The men had gone flying backwards, like something out of a movie.

Arthur slowed, nearly stopped, until he remembered their state of being and hurried them both along.

“That was you?” he asked. “Are you saying you did that?”

Merlin's head nodded just as shakily as the rest of him.

“You sent them flying? How?”

“I don't know. I've never done it that... that _big_ before. It was always little things, and I never did it much. Mum said not to, that it might scare people.”

Arthur sighed, then took a deep breath, the cold helping him find his patience. “Merlin, you're not making any sense.”

“I...” Merlin's body shook hard with a shiver. “I can... kind of... move things. With my mind, sometimes. But it was always little things like plates and cups. Nothing big like that. I think it was because I was scared and then that man came at you with the knife and I didn't really think about it it just happened and--”

“Merlin. Merlin. Breathe. It's all right. Calm down.” Except Merlin wasn't calming down. His breathing was still fast, his body still shaking, and he was starting to stumble and they still weren't near the flat. 

“So you can move things with your mind,” Arthur stated, thinking fast, his heart racing in near-panic. “Like an X-Man? Are you a secret super-hero mutant and you just didn't bother to tell me?”

Merlin's lips twitched in a brief smile. “I don't know what I am,” he said rather dejectedly. “My mum tried to find out, called all these institutions to see if they could tell us. She wasn't scared of it, though,” he added quickly thinking Arthur would get the wrong idea. “She thought it was neat. But I needed help with it because it would just happen, sometimes. The institute people were nice. They couldn't tell me what it was but they at least showed me how to control it.”

“Did your step dad know?” Arthur asked, but had a feeling he knew the answer.

“No. He just thought it was because I had mental problems.”

When they finally reached the door to the flat, Merlin's breathing was under control, but he still twitched with the shakes and refused to lift his eyes from their downward position. 

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, his hand on the door knob, about to open it. “Merlin, are you sure you're not hurt?”

“I'm fine,” Merlin muttered. 

Arthur sighed, dropping his hand from the knob. “Merlin, what's wrong? And don't tell me nothing's the matter. Is it because of... of what you did? Because I find you saving our lives a rather odd thing to feel guilty about.”

Merlin glanced up at him. It was brief, but long enough for Arthur to see a sea of emotions flitting through his eyes – fear, uncertainty, but most of all, a tentative hope.

“It doesn't bother you? What I did?” he asked, timid as the day Arthur had met him.

“Well, I must admit it's certainly different. But I'm not sure why it would bother me.” Except it did bother him, just not in the way Merlin thought it did. The kid could move things with his mind, and as Arthur had said, it was different, and odd, a little unnerving, even, should Arthur ever accidentally scare the boy badly enough to get knocked back as well.

But Arthur also had the impression that it would take something as bad as a man holding a knife screaming at him for the boy to ever use his... gift, power, Arthur wasn't sure what to call it... against anyone to that degree. 

And it was still Merlin. Skinny, timid Merlin. And...

And...

It felt...

 _Right_. It fit. Like Merlin's smile and his occasional cheekiness. Arthur didn't know how or why, but being able to move things with the mind... it was strange to say, but not strange to think – it was just so _Merlin_. 

“It's quite exciting, really. Our very own X-Man,” Arthur said. “Could come in handy the next time I need to play a prank on Gwaine.” He smiled at Merlin.

Merlin smiled back, a real smile, full of gratitude, relief, but also the rather scary possibility of him bursting into tears. 

“Come on,” Arthur said, pressing his hand to Merlin's shoulder to push him closer to the door. “Let's go regale the others with grand tales our adventure. That is, unless you're not ready yet?”

“Um...” Merlin shuffled uneasily. “No. I'm sorry but... I just...”

Arthur patted his shoulder. “It's fine, Merlin. We don't have to say anything. Besides, Gwaine would probably end up getting you to prank me, first.”

They entered the flat, the gang greeting them with a cheer, except for Percival, who greeted them with a chipper, “About bloody time you got back, I'm starving.”

Arthur left the bags for the boys to raid, providing an ample enough distraction so that Arthur could take another few minutes to make sure Merlin was all right. The idiot got winded on the way to the store but should be fine, was what Arthur said to anyone not too busy stuffing their face with pretzels to listen. He ushered Merlin to the couch, had him sit, handed him one of the throw blankets Morgana said would be a crime not to have in any house, then handed him the remote. 

“You're sure you're fine?” Arthur pressed.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, covering himself in the blanket then burrowing into it. Arthur was relieved to see his shivers had subsided. 

Merlin smiled up at Arthur. “I'll be all right.”

Arthur believed him, then went to make some hot chocolate.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

_“I have magic,” Merlin said, fighting through his sorrow and tears. “And I use it only for you, Arthur. Only for you.”_

~oOo~

Morgana, Arthur had to grudgingly admit with some pain, was rather, somewhat, in a way, reliable after all when it came to shopping for someone else. The bed she found for Merlin was just right, not too big, nothing even remotely fancy and girlish, but comfortable and set at a price that didn't make Arthur groan with regret. And Morgana being Morgana was pleased to the point of condescending smugness. 

Arthur didn't care, for once. The bed wouldn't be delivered until after Sunday, which meant Arthur wouldn't be able to see Merlin's reaction until they both came home from work, and for some odd reason it left Arthur feeling on pins and needles rather than excited and self-satisfied. He wasn't looking forward to how Merlin would take it.

Merlin was such an emotionally fragile kid – yet one more attribute to the boy that Arthur found utterly, almost disgustingly wrong. And although he'd grown more open and outgoing over the past few days it still didn't take much to overwhelm him. Case in point, Gaius had spared Merlin the arduous process of job hunting by hiring him as part of the clinic's very small cleaning staff, old Mrs. Monroe having retired due to her arthritis. Arthur had told Gaius of Merlin's penchant for cleaning during one of Gaius' frequent calls to learn how Merlin was doing. 

Merlin, being the emotional fragile thing that he was, had been so grateful he had started to cry, his voice thick as he thanked Gaius over the Arthur's mobile and promised as though promising his very soul that he would do a good job and not let Gaius down. Then he'd fretted, with much agony and even more crying, whether he really would be good enough and that he probably wasn't worthy to keep such a posh clinic clean and how maybe Gaius would be better off hiring an expert. He would have called Gaius back right then and there had Arthur not hid the mobile where Merlin couldn't find it. It had been quite the ordeal, Merlin barely able to eat, unable to sleep, skipping breakfast come Monday morning, he was so nervous, and despite having all Sunday to get used to the idea that, yes, someone had just hired him, he seemed worse off than before.

Arthur couldn't begin to imagine how Merlin was going to react to receiving a bed. Because, Arthur realized, it would be more than just a bed to the boy. 

It would be a home. 

There would most definitely be tears.

Arthur, needing to keep his mind off Merlin's inevitable girlish reaction, focused on his work. It was sometime around an hour before lunch that his father summoned him for their usual start-of-the-week confrontation, and Arthur dragged his prematurely weary body to the top-most floor of the building. 

“Arthur,” Uther greeted, almost chipperly, much to Arthur's surprise and growing consternation. Uther never greeted him with such an upbeat attitude. 

“How was your weekend?” he asked next, as usual except for his mild smile that actually seemed to reach to his eyes.

Arthur eased himself into the seat as though it were a snake and not his father at the desk. 

“Er... uneventful, actually,” he said. There was no reason to inform Uther of Saturday's mugging incident. “Stayed home. Played cards with the lads. Nothing much else.”

Uther nodded. “Good, good. I will make this brief seeing as how the lunch hour is almost upon us. I merely wanted to let you know that it has come to my attention that you have shown marked improvement in your work, and I wanted you to know how pleased I am that you are showing such initiative.”

Arthur was silent, mostly because he was trying not to gape. He couldn't decide which he was more stunned by – that he was actually getting work done or that his father was actually praising him. Arthur would be the first to admit – because he often did – that he had never been the most motivated of individuals when it came to his job. Mostly because he didn't want to do it, partly because it was skull-numbingly dull, and also in some small part out of the hope that his father would finally give up on his stubborn resolve to turn Arthur into another Uther by firing him. 

“Arthur, you know that I did not hire you merely because you are my son. I do believe in what you are capable of if you put your mind to it. I do have faith in your abilities.” Then, Uther smiled, actually smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his entire face. “Keep this up and you may finally be able to qualify for a raise.”

Arthur continued to gape until a part of his mind realized, rather slowly, that Uther was waiting for a response.

“Oh,” Arthur said. It was all he seemed capable of getting out of his mouth at the moment.

Uther chuckled, then dismissed him with a flap of his hand and a, “I won't keep you. You may go.”

Arthur left – at least his body did, his mind was still busy reeling over the fact that Uther hadn't chewed him out, that they had left on good terms – better than good terms, Uther had actually _praised_ him. Because Arthur was actually _doing a good job_. 

Arthur wondered at what point he had stumbled through whatever invisible portal had taken him to this alternate universe where he didn't idle away the work hours on the Net and his father was proud of him. Arthur had been distracted, that was all he could figure – distracted to the point of... better work ethics? Lords, he was odd. 

Or maybe he'd finally gotten it through his thick head that life was easier when he didn't give his father a reason to give him grief. Keep your head down, do your work, make sure Uther has no reason what so ever to find out that you took in a homeless kid, used the family physician to make him all better and, oh yes, just bought the kid a bed as well as found out he has magical powers. Which was ridiculous - not the magical powers part (even though it should have been ridiculous, except it didn't feel ridiculous, which was rather ridiculous in and of itself) – but the part where Arthur had thought and dreaded over Uther not only finding out about Merlin but actually caring that Arthur had taken him in. Uther had never cared about Arthur's social life except when he thought it would interfere with Arthur's work. If anything, Uther would be more than likely to thank Merlin for becoming enough of a distraction to actually aim Arthur's mind toward work rather than away from it.

Lords, it really was Merlin's fault, wasn't it? Because taking him in had meant another mouth to feed, and suddenly those things that Arthur hadn't given a damn about began to matter. It was as though Arthur had forgotten about his trust fund, and his paycheck had grown into something more than extra spending cash, it had become a necessity. 

Arthur had no clue what to make of it all. He returned to his desk and resumed his work until lunchtime, finally figuring that if it meant getting out of the office verbally unscathed, then it wasn't all that bad. 

~oOo~

Arthur was nervous, so mostly silent because of it. Merlin was... Arthur wasn't quite sure what Merlin's state of mind was, but the look on his face Arthur wanted to call bewilderment, as if Merlin still couldn't quite believe that he had a job. He was also exhausted according to he way his shoulders slumped, but it was a happy exhaustion of a job well done, the small smile trying to tug at his lips said so. 

“Have a good first day?” Arthur finally thought to ask.

Merlin startled, not out of alarm, but like he had forgotten Arthur was the one currently driving him home. 

“Yes. Definitely. Mrs. Kline was very patient with me – she's in charge of the cleaning. She even said I did a good job but that was probably her just being nice.”

“Doubt it,” Arthur muttered. 

“But it's not all that hard, really. Just wiping things down, vacuuming, mopping and putting tools in the autoclave and such.”

“Good,” Arthur said with a nod.

“And your day?” Merlin asked with a smile, like a giddy child with energy in desperate need of an outlet. That was most definitely happy exhaustion Arthur was seeing. 

“Good,” Arthur said out loud. He added under his breath. “Surprisingly.”

Merlin went on about his day as though he'd been eager to tell someone, anyone, who'd be willing to listen. It wasn't all that interesting, to be honest – there'd been a child who wouldn't stop screaming even though all Gaius did was listen to her heart, an older lady who kept calling Gaius Greg and Merlin Marlin, and Merlin got to feed the fish in Gaius' lobby. But the more Merlin talked, the happier and more giddy he became, until one would think he was working at Disneyland and not some small, private clinic.

Then they arrived home. Arthur made sure that he was the first to walk in, and Gwaine met him the very moment he stepped through the door.

“Bed's here,” he said in Arthur's ear, what with Merlin following close behind. 

“Is it ready?” Arthur whispered back.

Gwaine beamed. “Ready and waiting.”

“Ready and waiting in a manner that it won't collapse if he so much as sits on it?”

Gwaine feigned hurt with a hand over his heart. “Oh, come on, Pendragon, give my mechanic skills some credit. The lads who brought it over did the hard part, I just helped place the mattress.”

They then turned as one to Merlin, startling the boy with their suddenly rapt attention.

“Merlin, come with us,” Arthur said.

Merlin reacted like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed and a little frozen. “What? Why? What's going on?”

Gwaine nudged Arthur hard in the ribs. “Next time, I do the talking,” he said, then he smiled. “Nothing, mate. Just got a bit of a surprise for you is all. Come on, this way. You're going to love it, promise.”

Gwaine led the way into his room, a room that had been cleaned beyond tidy to immaculate – Merlin-style immaculate. The furniture had been rearranged putting Gwaine's bed on the far right, and the new bed on the left under the window. Being the largest room, because Gwaine was spoiled and an incessant whiner like that, there was more than enough room to spare. 

Arthur and Gwaine parted, both sweeping a hand at the bed that had been made up with all the spare blankets and sheets they had, knowing how easily cold Merlin got. 

Merlin stood in the doorway, jaw agape. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Before you ask, yes, this bed is yours,” he said. “As is half the closet.” He looked pointedly at Gwaine. “Right?”

“Of course!” Gwaine said, mildly affronted. “It's not like he has much to go in there. The top drawer of the dresser's also yours, mate. Same with the two shelves by the window if you've got trinkets you want to put up.”

Merlin continued to stand there, just staring.

“Um...” Gwaine said, leg jiggling uncertainly. “You do like it?”

Then Arthur saw it, the bright shimmering sheen coating Merlin's eyes, making the blue of them twice as vivid. The shaking soon followed, keeping mostly to the shoulders and the hands. 

“Gwaine,” Arthur said. “Could you give us a moment?”

Gwaine leaned in toward Arthur. “Does he not like it?”

“Just give us a moment,” Arthur said softly. Gwaine, puzzled, nodded all the same and left, giving Merlin a pat on the shoulder in passing. Once Gwaine was gone, Arthur took a stunned Merlin by the bicep, steered him toward the new bed, then tugged him down until he was sitting on the edge. Arthur sat next to him, angled so that he was facing Merlin. He leaned in with his elbows on his knees. 

The water gathering in Merlin's eyes finally fell.

“Why?” he asked.

Arthur shrugged. “Do I need a reason?”

Merlin sniffed. He wiped quickly at his nose with a shaking hand. “Cause you felt sorry for me.”

Arthur inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly as he thought on the answer. “You would think so. At least, I thought so, at first. Which is odd because I've never really been one to feel sorry for anyone. But that's the problem. Had it been pity I think I would have simply dropped you off at the nearest homeless shelter. I brought you home instead. I can't explain why – I'm still not sure why. Logically it was foolish of me since I had no idea who you were and you could have been a serial killer for all I knew.”

This brought a small, fleeting smile to Merlin's face and a short, quiet laugh.

“It felt right,” Arthur went on. “That's all I know. And I think, at this point, it doesn't really matter, seeing as how you're not a serial killer and all. You're a good lad, actually, and you deserve this as far as I'm concerned. So don't go arguing it otherwise, understand?”

Merlin nodded, even as the tears kept falling. 

“Good,” Arthur said, clapping Merlin on the back. “Then I'm going to leave, and you're going to sit here and enjoy your new bed and not worry about the whys or what it all means or what have you. Right? Right. I'll just leave you to it, then.”

Arthur got up and headed for the door.

“Arthur?”

Arthur stopped and turned. Merlin looked at him with eyes made brighter by even more tears. The boy was going to dehydrate at this point. Did the poor kid ever not have a reason to cry?

“Thank you?” Merlin said. It was like being kicked, but in a good way, if there was such a thing as a good kick. Because Arthur knew, right off, that the gratitude he was hearing, seeing, encompassed so much more than just a bed. 

Arthur smiled. “You're welcome.”

~oOo~

“So?”

Arthur looked up then around the fridge door at Gwaine, sprawled out on the couch but his head tilted back and turned as much as possible in order to look at Arthur. Arthur went back to rummaging through the fridge for an after-work (and after-dealing-with-an-emotional-Merlin- _again_ ) snack.

“So what?” Arthur said.

“So what? Does he like the bed, that's what.” 

“Yes, he likes it. He was just overwhelmed, that's all. It's... how he is if you haven't noticed.” Arthur settled on a carton of left over Tai food then joined Gwaine on the couch. All he wanted to do was eat, numb his brain with TV and hope Merlin came out dry-eyed and happy. Today had been a good day and he would like it to end on a high note, thank you very much, by not having to deal with overly emotional former homeless boys. 

“I know who he is,” Gwaine said.

“Do you?” Arthur said absently, the mind-numbing TV watching already starting to kick in.

“He's that lad that was huddled by the dumpster.”

Arthur's fork loaded with food paused halfway to his mouth. 

Gwaine sighed. “Look, I never said anything because it didn't matter to me. I know what everyone thinks of me – Gwaine, too busy daydreaming about all those lovely super models to see what's going on right in front of him. But I see, mate. Believe me, I see.”

“But you didn't question it,” Arthur stated.

“Like I said, it didn't matter,” Gwaine said.

Arthur shot him a withering look. “It didn't matter? Me bringing in some homeless boy we didn't know a ruddy thing about and it didn't matter? _Me_ bringing in a homeless boy instead of chasing him off like I've always done, and it didn't matter?”

Gwaine winced. “Yeah, I know. It just... it didn't, I'm sorry. If anything I thought it kind of adorable, you being nice and all. I guess, maybe, deep down I didn't want to say anything and end up giving you a reason to go back on your decision out of some stupid sense of pride. I don't know. It was weird, weird as you taking in some homeless kid. But I went with it because...”

“It didn't matter,” Arthur finished.

Gwaine lifted up his hands. “Who am I to argue against anyone helping a homeless kid out? You know me, Arthur. I'm driftwood on the tide. I go where it takes me. You decide to bring a homeless kid home, feed him, let him borrow your clothes, take him to the doctor, so be it. To be honest, I probably would've done the same if I hadn't been pissed out of my mind. Or at least dropped him a few quid. I'm always doing that, anyway, when you're not looking.”

Arthur nodded. “That's why you're always a quid short when we need a taxi ride home.”

Gwaine snorted, shaking his head. “I'm just saying.” He looked at Arthur. “I don't care why you took the kid in. But I think it's good that you did, and what you're doing for him. It's... it's _right_ , what you're doing for him.”

Arthur's gaze softened. After a moment, he nodded. “I know.”

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're near the end, folks, so I'll be posting the final chapter tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Lance managed to book them all rooms at a little bed and breakfast across the road from a lake, and they all made due on their previously drunken plan to get out of the city just to be getting out. Gwaine, sneaky bastard that he was, invited Gwen and Morgana to come along. Merlin came with them, because like hell they were leaving him behind.

It was cloudy and drizzling most of the time, but the area was gorgeous, the nearby village full of those little shops with little items you could only find in those far away country places where people still made things by hand. The lake was beautiful even under the gray sky, and when the drizzle decided to take a rest they would bring blankets out onto the grass for a picnic, eating and playing games all to the gentle lapping of the water. 

Merlin preferred to sit and stare out over the lake, at the tiny island in the distance where an ancient tower sat like a lone sentinel guarding that little patch of land. Except he always looked so bloody lonely sitting there, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders because the air was just cool enough to make him shiver. Getting him to join them in their conversation or games had meant to be a game in itself. It became more like a necessity. Merlin was not meant to be alone, and they wouldn't let him. 

So they would tug on his arm, or cajole him, or tease him until he finally joined them, and he would roll eyes as if he were indulging them, only to lose himself in whatever activity they were doing. Merlin called Arthur a prat while they were playing croquet and decided to make up their own rules that mostly involved cheating, Arthur called him idiot and they both laughed, and it felt so very, very right.

Arthur, Gwaine and Merlin shared a room on the second floor of the bed and breakfast. It wasn't exactly the most masculine room with its doilies and flowered wallpaper, but it was warm, comfortable, and Arthur (though he wouldn't admit it) rather liked how it smelled like freshly baked apple pie. You could also see the lake and the tiny island through the window, much to Merlin's liking. 

~oOo~

_“Just.... just hold me,” Arthur said. Because he was dying. Because he didn't want to die alone. Because Merlin, being Merlin, wanted – needed – to do something, to save him, to do for Arthur what he had always done._

_What Arthur wanted was for him to be there._

_“I don't want you to change,” Arthur said, wanting to hold onto Merlin as Merlin was holding him and never let go. “I want you... to always be you.”_

~oOo~

Arthur woke up and he didn't know why. He didn't have to go, and the room was silent as a tomb. He looked around, wracking his half-asleep brain for whatever it was that was bugging the hell out of him enough to pull him out of his sleep. He was going to smack himself if he forgot to lock the car again--

His eyes passed over Merlin's bed, the one by the window overlooking the lake. The clouds had cleared; moonlight was pouring through the parted curtains, spilling across the rumpled blankets of a bare mattress. 

It bothered him, seeing the bed empty, which was ridiculous. The boy was just going to the bathroom, for goodness sake, that was all. But then there was that sense of something wrong, something missing, and it was with annoyance more than worry that Arthur caved to it. He wasn't sure what it is he was even bothered by, but he searched the room all the same, a stupid and futile endeavor in the dark. He passed the window and looked out toward the lake. The moon was large and bright, turning the world silver and black.

A dark shape sat huddled on the grass by the shore, alone and far away.

Arthur frowned. “No.” That couldn't be Merlin, not this late at night out in the cold. He was just going to the bathroom, that was all. Arthur went into the hall to prove it. The bathroom was at the very end.

The door was open, the interior dark.

“What the hell is he doing?” Arthur hissed rushing back into the room. He jammed his feet into his shoes, not bothering to tie them, threw on his jacket and hurried from the inn.

The night was the crisp, fresh cold of a spring rain, both biting and invigorating. Dew and the remains of drizzle soaked quickly through the ankles of his sweats as he kicked through the grass toward the huddled form staring out at the lake as though entranced. 

Arthur's immediate desire was for a swift and anxious reaction full of loud demands as to what the hell Merlin was thinking, coming out here this late at night. Did he want to get sick again? Did he realize how much finding him gone had terrified Arthur? And what the hell was so fascinating about that damn lake?

That would have been his reaction if he hadn't looked at Merlin's face. The boy was staring, just staring, looking half-asleep but placid, even has tears flashed like diamonds down his face. 

“Merlin?” Arthur asked. Seriously, did this boy ever stop crying?

Merlin looked up at him with a blink of surprise and smiled. “Oh, Arthur. Hi. What are you doing out here?” There was no thickness to his voice, no nasal inflection of a stuffed up nose. It was just Merlin as he had been the entire weekend, content and contemplative whenever he looked out over the water. 

Arthur frowned. “What are you doing out here? It's the middle of the bleeding night.”

It was Merlin's turn to frown, taking in his surroundings with the look of a man finally realizing where he was.

“Um... I'm not really sure. I had a bad dream. I remember that. It made me feel hot and stuffy. I think I just came out for some air and... lost track of time, I suppose.” Yet he made no move to get up, instead burrowing deeper into the blanket he had brought. At least he had thought to bring something to help keep off the chill. 

This was the part, Arthur knew, where he should have coaxed – if not demanded – that Merlin come inside. Except it didn't feel right, and Arthur had come to learn that maybe listening to such feelings might not be a bad idea. 

He wanted to stay, in fact. Take in some fresh air of his own. He settled next to Merlin on the wet grass instead. 

But a chiding was still in order. 

“Yes, well, remember that losing track of time could mean another bout of near-pneumonia. Gaius'll kill you if that happens.”

“No, he'll kill you for not making me come inside,” Merlin said. He grinned shamelessly around his tears.

Arthur glared at him, then rolled his eyes, then looked back at those tears still racing each other down the pale, thin face.

“Why are you crying?”

Once again, Merlin blinked, startled. He brought thin fingers to his cheeks, lifting the moisture onto his fingertips. He stared at them like they were something impossible.

“I don't know,” he said. He rubbed his fingers together. He looked from his fingers to the lake and the island in the distance, with its lonely tower watching as the world moved on without it. 

“It's this place, I think,” Merlin said. “It makes me sad, sometimes. I don't know why.”

“Then why do you like sitting here, staring at it?” Arthur asked.

Merlin shrugged. “Because...” but shook his head, his quiet laugh self-deprecating. “It's stupid.”

“Can I hear it, anyway?” Arthur said, and if it sounded hopeful, and just a touch desperate, it was probably because he was tired and hearing things.

Merlin tugged the blanket tighter around him. “Sometimes... sometimes it makes me happy, too.” He looked over at Arthur, just as hopeful, just as desperate. “That doesn't make sense,” he said.

Arthur looked out over the water, silver in the moonlight, at the island and the tower.

And he felt it. The sad. The hope. The joy. They danced around each other, over and over – a pain like a knife to the heart, a loneliness tempered by hope where there should be no hope, and joy as free as flying and as warm as a blanket. Over and over and over again. 

“A-Arthur?” Merlin said, tentative and timid as the day Arthur had met him, huddling lost and alone against that dumpster. The memory made Arthur's heart break, his eyes blur. When he blinked, he felt warm moisture slide down his face.

“Yes?” he said.

“That night, during the card game, you talked about how... how you all met. How you always meet your friends.”

“Yes?” Arthur said.

“Did you mean it? Am I, you know... a friend too?”

Arthur gave him a bewildered look. “Seriously? Has it not become blatantly obvious at this point?” He shook his head at what seemed to be the boy's unending inability to recognize what was right in front of him. Then he wrapped his arm around the bony shoulders. He pulled Merlin against his side, holding on like an unspoken promise that he would never let go. 

And it was right, like a missing piece back where it belonged, like finding the brother Arthur never knew he had, like the best friend that had had to leave his side, just for a little while, and was back where he belonged. 

The cycle ended. There was no sadness, no loneliness riding on the thin thread of hope. There was only joy, like flying and warmth. Like being home.

“You are such an idiot,” Arthur said. “Of course you're my friend. Is it really _that_ hard to realize?”

Merlin chuckled. “Gah, you're a clot pole, sometimes, you know that?”

“Merlin, that's not even a word.”

“It is now.”

Arthur ruffled Merlin's hair until he squawked in protest, and they both laughed. Arm still around his shoulders, Arthur began tugging Merlin to his feet.

“Come on,” he said. “Inside. You've had enough fresh air.”

They went inside, Arthur and Merlin. Maybe it was that feeling of joy, or maybe Arthur's brain unhappy about being awake and getting revenge by plaguing him with the most ridiculous thoughts, but it felt not unlike they were walking toward the future – a good, bright future that had been waiting for them throughout centuries, as ancient as the world itself. 

It was definitely his tired brain getting revenge. Had to be.

Except that it felt right.

The end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's a wrap. I'm so glad you all enjoyed this, especially since I really enjoyed writing it (even if it did take for flippin' ever even fore being so short).


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